


Unlikely Synchronicity

by josephides



Category: Alpha and Omega - Patricia Briggs, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaguely Ashamed Of Myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24704041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephides/pseuds/josephides
Summary: Bran is Sorry Not Sorry and Mercy comes to terms with it.
Relationships: Adam Hauptman/Mercy Thompson, Bran Cornick/Leah Cornick, Bran Cornick/Mercy Thompson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 88





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In order to make this work, I had to make up an entirely nebulous reason for Why Adam Left that is never really explained. This is very lazy - I admit it.

Bran answered the phone without looking at the number. There had been so much _fussing_ today and it had just needed this final call to complete the circle.

He wondered who had told him. Charles, presumably, or his Omega mate. As a lone wolf, Samuel shouldn’t have felt the repercussions the same way someone in his pack would do. Had done.

“Da. We’re at the airport. There’s a flight via Hamburg. It’s—?” Samuel muffled the phone against something material, to confirm the schedule with his fae mate who did so in a tone that suggested she was repeating it not for the first time. “An eight-hour layover. So we’ll be there this time tomorrow.”

“It’s unnecessary,” Bran said, mildly, methodically deleting emails of condolence. Anyone who felt email was the correct way to offer sympathy did not deserve to be acknowledged. “There’s no need for you both to be here.”

Samuel’s silence conveyed his thoughts more than words did. Bran closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose. The house was quiet and so too was his wolf – but how to reassure everyone that this was the case? Even he wasn’t convinced that something wasn’t going to happen. His mind felt raw, macerated. “There’s no need to cut your trip short. Everything is… fine.”

“Da. We’re coming home.”

“Well, then, I’ll see you tomorrow evening. We can have a nice family meal. Perhaps we could grill something,” he mused. “The weather is particularly fine.”

Again. Samuel’s silence spoke volumes.

Bran sighed. “I will see you tomorrow.”

*

He made a sandwich, avoiding the collation of prepared meals that had been thoughtfully stacked in the refrigerator. Someone had even presented him with a hamper which he curiously flicked through. One of the females, he thought. Peggy. Homemade jellies, pickles, a freshly baked loaf and a tin of cookies. He was touched; he could smell many items were freshly made.

Leah would hate it. Would have. Another female preparing food for her mate? Unacceptable.

Bran took the sandwich upstairs, along the corridor to one of the spare rooms. The one, noticeably, as far a way from his as possible. He wondered who had decided that. Charles had carried her because she had not allowed Bran to. Perhaps it was an accident.

He tapped on the door, waited. When there was no answer, he edged it open.

She lay with her back to the door, her long, dark hair tangled over the pillow. Her breathing was deep, even, and did a reasonable job of mimicking the rhythms of sleep were it not for the racing heartbeat. The room was saturated with a heady mixture of grief, old blood, and fear. It tasted familiar and he shook a memory away as it tried to surface. Now was not the time.

He put the sandwich on the dresser and stared at her a little more, at a loss. The formula of his life had been very simple; he did not know how to manage this new normal. He didn’t know how to _console_ her. Not now. 

There was a pile of dirty clothes – blood, sweat – at the base of the bed, which he scooped up. “I’ll launder these,” he said, half to himself, half to her. “Please try to eat something, Mercy.”

He took the clothes to the utility room and familiarised himself with the machinery. He was out of practice; Leah had someone in twice a week to manage the household chores, someone who smelled of lemon verbena and baby powder.

The shirt was white – an impractical colour for most circumstances, but Mercy had been visiting on the way home from a celebration, not expecting a battle – so he set it aside, would deal with the blood stains separately, put the jeans and sweater in with some other darker items. When the machine was running, he filled the sink with cold water and, without thinking, lifted the bloodied shirt against his face and breathed in deeply.

His wolf whispered, _Mate._

*

He slept a little. Enough. His bedroom bore no trace of Leah and even if it did what sadness he felt was contained. He had effective ways of managing grief. Coping mechanisms, he thought to himself, rolling his eyes at the oft-repeated phrase, one that Anna had used only yesterday to explain Bran’s ability to function, as if her Omega properties hadn’t also had something to do with it.

Only Tag had been the one to voice, bluntly, an appreciation for the fact that the monster inside of Bran hadn’t snapped and killed them all when the mate bond died with Leah.

The wolf had saved them. Unexpectedly. _Coping mechanism, indeed._

He looked in the mirror. “I’m not sorry I am still here,” he said, not sure whether this was to himself or to the wolf who rested peacefully inside. 

A ripple of gold crossed his eyes. The wolf agreed, either way. The wolf, after all, knew the man inside and out. Knew all of Bran’s most secret wants and desires.

He rubbed his face. He could contain that, too.

“You will not get what you want,” he told the wolf, finally. “You will have to compromise.”

The wolf bared his teeth. _Tell me about the compromise._


	2. Chapter 2

She emerged from her room after four weeks and only after Anna’s gentle nurturing. Hair wet and plaited, she wore an oversized shirt – new, from the store – and a pair of jeans that were Anna’s. Though strong, Anna was smaller and slighter so the fact that this item fit, relatively speaking, spoke to Mercy’s malnourishment. She was pining for her lost mate.

The wolf growled.

They ate lunch together, as a family. Soup and bread rolls, all made by somebody else. Juste, Bran thought, mechanically spooning it into his mouth. There were cuts of meat and cheese. A salad. Some pie – venison – which had been warmed. Anna and Charles were talking about her Japanese lessons. Sam was scrolling through his phone. His fae mate, given the circumstances of Adam’s abrupt departure and her own sensitivities about angry werewolves, had elected not to join the meal. Mercy had shredded her bread roll onto a plate with one hand and was stirring her soup with the other. Her wedding ring glinted on her finger. He knew it, along with her engagement ring and Adam’s dog-tags, were normally worn around her neck. That she had worn it on her finger was deliberate.

A swell of rage bubbled up inside of him so visceral it felt like the soup was boiling inside. He took a sip of water, slowly. Still, Mercy looked up, looked at him, for the first time. And she was _furious_.

 _Finally_ , Bran thought. _Progress_.

*

The British werewolf was not unexpected. Bran just hoped it didn’t herald a series of desertions from the Columbia Basin Pack; Darryl didn’t deserve that. A good, solid man who would have made a good, solid alpha of his own pack. No Adam, certainly, but there were very few Adams, to Bran’s eternal regret. Now Darryl had taken over someone else’s pack, trying to heal the wounds left there and come into his own strength. He would need all the help he could get.

He inducted Ben into the pack on the night of the full moon, the boiling presence that was Mercy at his back and trickling through his senses.

“Will you run?” he asked her, as the pack changed.

She didn’t meet his eyes, instead turned her back on him – as no one else would dare to do – and walked back into the house. He felt a series of shock waves ripple through the pack at this risky behaviour. It had been more than twenty years since she had left and there had been changes, as there always would be with old wolves. Only some remembered her from before. Others had heard the stories and expected they were exaggerated, laughed when anecdotes were shared as if they couldn’t possibly believe them. Seeing Mercy’s defiance in the flesh would always shock them. 

Charles and Samuel watched him warily, both holding off the change to see what he would do. He would have chastised Leah publicly for that behaviour. He would not do that to Mercy now. Could not.

Not yet, he amended. If this was going to work, eventually they would need to come to some kind of agreement.

So thinking, Bran smiled placidly and pulled on the pack bonds to bring forth his wolf, impressively fast, a superficial demonstration of strength to please his audience. It was the night of the full moon and the pack came first. It was every Alpha’s duty.

*

Time passed. Every day he met his wolf’s reflection in the mirror and they re-affirmed the compromise. The mate bond lay tattered and dormant, a thread of sanity that pulled taught between him and Mercy. He had not travelled more than five miles from her, for fear that distance would make it worse. He did not touch it, he did not engage with it. He had ensured that nothing would get through to her from him and vice versa. He did not know yet what form the bond would take, if it would come with any gifts or would simply be the practical agreement he had reached with Leah. His power to her.

“You need to talk to her,” Samuel coaxed him, daily.

Bran was annoyed. “What would you suggest I say? I am trying to make this easy on her. She’s sensible enough to recognise that. And I have nothing to apologise for. I didn’t make this choice alone. Nor did I make Adam’s.”

Sam pressed his lips together. “I’m not saying you should apologise and certainly not for Adam. That’s—that’s something Mercy will have to deal with separately.”

Bran did not think that would be possible. For Mercy, the loss of her true mate was a bereavement ineffably tied with her unwanted bond to Bran. They were one and the same. A simultaneous, undesirable—

“Clusterfuck,” Ben surmised, when the story had been told to him.

“I like that,” Bran mused. He repeated it, often. _Clusterfuck._ It was satisfyingly to the point.

Anna was, also, blunt because she took liberties with him as there was no one else who would. Until Mercy. “Have you had sex?” she asked, waiting until he had a mouthful of the wine she had brought over.

He swallowed, with difficulty. “It _is_ a very pleasant Merlot, isn’t it.”

“I know it doesn’t solve everything but with you and Leah—“

“This is not the same situation and I will not discuss this further,” Bran said, revolted. He was now fond of her more than just because she was beloved by his son but if she continued to discuss his non-existent carnal relations with his mate any longer he was going to throw her through a window. Gently.

Anna’s pretty face flushed, no more comfortable with the topic than he was, but he could tell from her shoulders she was going to persevere. He held up a hand. “Anna, please. Stop. If not for me, then for her. It is none of your business.” 

“It is if one night I wake to you razing the town,” she said through her sharp little teeth. Anna, after all, had met the Beserker before, however briefly.

Bran smiled and took a sip of his wine. “That won’t be a problem. You wouldn’t wake up.”

She went a little pale and settled back down.

*

He did not sleep, much, any more. It was to be expected. He started to see his temper fraying as the wolf, barely caged, tested his boundaries. The eyes of his pack ceased lifting to his when he walked into a room, their restless worry plaguing him. Only his sons remained calm in his presence, expressing their concern with carefully chosen words and suggestions.

With prickling awareness, Bran observed the gap of knowledge between Sam and Charles. Sam, who thought Bran was navigating new and challenging feelings for a woman he had once considered his daughter and Charles… who did not.

It was the sort of detail that would, he imagined, when he lay awake in the endless sleepless hours, become important at some inconvenient point. Though Sam was mated and married himself now, pulled back from an edge that would have lost him to them forever. Perhaps he wouldn’t care that when Bran first sent Mercy away, it had been for Bran’s sake as much as it had been for Mercy’s and for Sam’s.

*

Being practical, he found Mercy in the kitchen one afternoon, making brownies. He stood next to her and waited for her to remotely acknowledge his existence, which she did, finally, once the brownies were in the oven and she was wiping down the counters and had to ask him to move.

Irritation bubbled and he squashed it.

“I would ask you for a favour,” he said, politely. He took a care to keep his body language relaxed.

Mercy’s shoulders hunched. “Yes?”

“It would be helpful if you would wear an item of my clothing. Occasionally,” he qualified, a last minute adjustment that he was not proud of and his wolf resented.

She ran the faucet and rinsed the cloth, her back to him. “You need me to smell like you.”

She was not new to werewolves. He should have spoken more plainly. “Yes.”

“Occasionally,” she qualified.

There was, within him, a screaming rage-response. _No, not occasionally, all the time._ “Once a week should be fine,” he said mildly.

“Bran,” she sighed. But it wasn’t a sad sigh, so he considered the conversation a success.

*

Perhaps it was experience, perhaps someone had said something, but Mercy’s scent began to change in a way that suggested ‘occasionally’ had been helpfully translated.

He had given her a set of white T-shirts, to start with, but soon noticed other items of his clothing disappearing from his dressing room. Button-downs, socks, sweats. He didn’t see her wearing most of these items and definitively tried not to spend too much time dwelling on it until the moment at 3am when, standing in the kitchen drinking a glass of water, he realised she was probably sleeping in them.

One moment he was there, in the kitchen, a cold glass of water in his hand, the next he was standing over her.

She woke in the manner of someone who had woken terrified many times in their life but whose self preservation instincts had been honed. Slowly, she rolled over to look at him. “You’re bleeding,” she told him, raising herself onto her elbows. “What happened?”

Wrestling as he was with the driving need to climb over and _into her_ and just _take_ , Bran said nothing.

She got out of bed – his sweats, his t-shirt, _he couldn’t breathe_ – and padded to the bathroom. She returned with a first aid box and turned on the lamp at the side of the bed. “Sit down,” she said, brushing hair from her face.

He sat on her bed. “I was not prepared for this,” he said, looking at his bleeding hand.

“For – what was this, a glass? For what happened to us? How it happened?” She took his hand and used tweezers to remove the shards of glass from his palm.

“I’ve never heard the like. Well,” he qualified, “I knew a man with two mates, once. Simultaneously.”

“Wow.” There was a wealth of disbelief in her tone.

“It wasn’t uncommon at the time. For humans,” he mused, thinking back. It had seemed unusual to him, at least. But then he had always been a one-woman-wolf. Or made to be.

“That wasn’t what I meant. I meant – in terms of the mating bond.”

“Ah, yes.”

She waved the bloodied tweezers around. “Magically challenging.”

“They seemed to manage. One was human so they had children. Of course, she died, so.” He wasn’t precisely sure where this story was going. Nowhere good, seemingly. He was very tired.

Mercy wiped his hands down with antiseptic. The cuts were already starting to heal. He wanted to lay his head down in her lap but he couldn’t. He and Leah had kept their physical intimacy to the bedroom, but it had been there, and he was finding he was missing even a bare minimum of tactility. Even having her hands picking glass from him was soothing.

“Why did you come here?” she asked him, quietly, inspecting his hands a final time.

“I don’t remember,” he said.

“That’s a lie,” she said gently, releasing him to put the first aid kit back in order. “Do you want to sleep here?”

“Yes,” he said, quickly, before she could change her mind.

She thrummed with tension and her gait was unsteady as she took the box back to the bathroom. “I sleep on the right. _Don’t_ touch me.”

*

It took two weeks of careful negotiation before Bran was able to convince her that as his bed was twice the size, they could more easily sleep _not touching_ than in the spare room she had elected to use as her own. And he did, sleep, that is. Sometimes two, three hours at a time, and then he would lie there, listening to her breathe. It was better. His wolf was… not content, but docile. Agreeable.

When Bran cared to, he inspected the mating bond. It was less frayed, a series of dull threads wound together. The sound it made was a whisper of a melody he couldn’t parse. He thought it had the potential to be beautiful.

He still daren’t touch it, for fear Mercy would feel it. Theirs was a fragile balance.

He tried not to remind her she was now the mate of the Marrok and not of Adam, the once Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack, the love of her life, and she tried not to let him go on a homicidal killing spree.


	3. Chapter 3

“Anna has suggested a girls’ night out,” Mercy told him, in one of her rare visits to his study.

He nodded because Charles had mentioned it to him. There had been noises about the Marrok’s mate becoming more integrated with the pack. He had been wary of placing any expectations on her and they had settled on social engagements as a start point. Time moved so much more quickly for everyone else, he had found. He would have let Mercy continue on for years as she was doing, if it helped her but knew at some point soon he would have to address her pack bonds or, rather, lack thereof.

She pulled the sleeves of his favourite sweater over her knuckles and made to look absorbed in his bookshelves. “I have never been… very good with girls. Not since college, at least.”

He frowned. “You mean werewolf females,” he suggested.

She gave this some thought and pulled a book from his shelf – _Emily Post_ , he thought – before putting it back. She had likely read most of his library, already. “Yes. The hierarchy is usually a challenge.”

He acknowledged this. In his pack, under his aegis, Leah had permanently damaged Mercy’s future relationships with women and werewolf females. He had intervened when he could but Mercy’s very nature, at the time, had made that difficult. As did his long term relationship with Leah. She had survived Leah, which was all that mattered to him. “Anna will help.”

“I suppose.”

He walked over to her and started pulling out the books that were recent acquisitions and they spent a pleasant few minutes discussing literature. She hadn’t, she admitted, had much time to read in the last few years, and they settled on a few non-fiction items for her to take with her to read, some historical biographies in her area of study at college, one or two others that he had enjoyed personally and recommended. When they were finished, she looked almost happy.

It occurred to him, fleetingly, that he would enjoy talking to someone else about literature. He would enjoy talking to _her_.

*

“You’re on my side.”

Though he had been awake, and listening, he hadn’t realised that he had instinctively rolled into the part of the bed that smelt most strongly of her. Bran rolled back to his side. “Sorry,” he murmured, folding his arms behind his head, making no pretence of being asleep now. “How was it?”

She kicked off her shoes. “I’m drunk.”

He tried not to smile at her annoyed tone. “Ah.”

“I don’t drink. I had a vodka coke and _two_ small glasses of wine.” She pulled her dress over her head and Bran firmly closed his eyes. There was a distinct difference between nudity during the change and a desirable, and desired, woman undressing in a dark, warm bedroom. He listened to her unclip her bra and then the sound of her safely layering herself in her, ergo his, sleepwear. His imagination, unfortunately, filled in the gaps.

He listened to her brush her teeth and wash her face before padding back to the bed. She gulped down the water he’d left for her and climbed under the sheets. “Thank you for the water,” she said, though she still sounded annoyed, and pushed a pillow around to her preferred location. “It was a nice night.”

“Good.” He smiled properly, where she couldn’t see him.

Mercy sighed and they lay in silence for a while. She rolled over so she was facing him. He could hear her thinking. “I’d like to try something,” she said.

“Okay,” he said, wondering what ideas the females in his pack had put into her head. Anna had been on at him to _redecorate_ so the house could reflect Mercy’s tastes. She had pointed out that this was the second time Mercy had moved into a home decorated by the first wife. It hadn’t seemed like something Mercy would be interested in. Leah had redecorated the house like clockwork every twenty years. The most recent had involved a truck-load of interior design magazines and then a troop of interior designers. It seemed utterly unlike Mercy, who liked practical things and functional design. 

So prosaic were his thoughts that when Mercy crawled over him and kissed him, he didn’t immediately know what was happening and then it took entirely inhuman effort on his part not to respond, to take over, not to _take, take, take, take,_ as his wolf demanded.

She pulled back and her eyes glittered down at him, breath minty soft on his face.

He stayed very still, staring back up at her, aware of the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Hmm,” she said, and when she leaned forward again, he was ready and managed to kiss her back. He kept his hands to himself, focussing on just the to and fro of their mouths, lest he scare her off by taking things further than she wanted.

Too soon, Mercy pulled back again and touched her fingers to her slick lips. She said nothing more and he watched her crawl back to her side of the bed and roll onto her side, away from him.

Wryly Bran acknowledged that she wouldn’t be able to miss the state such limited physical interaction had left him in – the scent of his desire now permeated the room. He draped an arm over his eyes, summoned an appropriate Saxon curse and resolved himself to another sleepless night.

*

So began, for Bran, weeks of absolute torment. First, following Mercy’s experimentation – for that was what it was – there was nothing. A week of nothing. A failed experiment, he had surmised, one that he had, like a youth, shamefully, privately, revisited many, many times in the shower.

To have what he so desperately desired dangled in front of him like that, only to be taken away was... torture.

Then it _happened again_. And he had been equally unprepared. They were in the kitchen. He was chopping vegetables. In the living room Anna and Sam were at the piano, tinkering and laughing. Charles was in the study printing off something for Bran to review. Mercy was with him basting two chickens under his instructions because – as she put it – her cooking was ‘indifferent at best’.

He was chopping Brussel sprouts because the only way he would eat them would be if they were shredded, fried with butter and bacon and he was explaining this to her in detail, trying to make her laugh, and she leaned over and kissed him and he had a knife in one hand and the other hand held a handful of sprouts he had just pulled from the bag. He wanted to drop everything, wanted to pull her to him, wrap his arms around her waist and touch her face, her hair, the curve of her breast. He wanted to pull her to the floor and tear her jeans from her body and bury himself inside of her. But instead he froze, as if she was the predator in the room, not him.

She pulled back, eyes dilated, licked her lips, and put the chickens back in the oven. She left the room and he heard her pick up a conversation with the others.

“Damn,” Bran told the Brussel sprouts. “ _Damn_.”

The wolf was amused. This did not bode well.

*

Four more times. Once in his study, she pressed him against his bookshelves. Once in his dressing room. On the couch in the living room. The kitchen, again, in the open door of the refrigerator. 

He was beginning to feel hunted. The monster, inexplicably, liked it. 

Charles and Sam noticed, both bug-eyed with astonishment. Sex was natural. They had tolerated his relationship with Leah because the control had been one-sided, the boundaries clear. Simple. Structured. Neither had ever seen their father in the state of near constant arousal that Mercy had whipped him into. When she walked into the room, his body went on high alert, braced in anticipation. It was… exhausting. Exhilarating.

“Is she doing it on purpose?” Anna asked, lips quirked. “Because… good for her.”

Bran grunted. “I don’t know.”

“Is it… I mean, are you having a good time?”

Both of his sons appeared as if they wished the ground would swallow them whole. For that reason alone, Bran allowed it but gave Anna a quelling look. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, I think she is.” Anna positively twinkled. She, too, liked to torment him. “So what’s your plan?”

“Plan?”

“There’s a plan. There’s always a plan.” The twinkle changed, became curious. She tilted her head to the side. “Unless the plan is to wait until she, I don’t know, climbs on top and has her way with you.”

Making a horrified noise, Sam abruptly left the room, leaving a glowering Charles behind. “Anna,” Charles said, sliding low in his seat, “please.”

“You can leave too. I want to know!”

“It’s nothing to do with us.”

Anna rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, fine. I’ll just ask Mercy if _she_ has a plan.” She beamed at Bran. “And then I won’t tell you!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which, they have sex. So much sex.

Christmas came, and went. Mercy’s mother, Margi – a legend in Aspen Creek – stayed for two weeks over New Year and he couldn’t decide who she upset more with her well-meaning intentions, Mercy or himself. He had thought himself impervious to humans – who were irrelevant to him, at best - but that was before he faced off with the mother of his mate, who was determined to right a wrong, no matter that every word she said was a knife to Mercy’s heart.

Margi had never liked Bran, had adored Adam, and she didn’t understand how ‘Bran had let this happen’. First, she tackled the non-existent Adam, demanding to know why he hadn’t ‘fought back’ against the fae, to the detriment of everyone he knew and loved, and why couldn’t they go and get him? Mercy had cried as she described the contract Adam had signed to protect his people, to protect her. Adam had exchanged his future for hers.

Then, it was Bran’s turn for forcing a mating bond on Mercy when she was at her most vulnerable. He had been forced to explain, at length, that a werewolf mating bond wasn’t a one-way thing, that for it to have formed, and succeeded, that meant Mercy had to have accepted it. This seemed to horrify Margi, who turned on Mercy for an explanation that Mercy didn’t have it in her to give. 

The only consolation was that most afternoons found the two of them together, in the bedroom, effectively hiding. In the beginning this had meant one or two hours of quiet reading and conversation, trying to maintain some peace, Bran’s awareness of her thrumming nonetheless. He supposed it wasn’t too difficult to sense that from him. It wasn’t long before Mercy took advantage of this, had him pressed into the bed, one leg draped across him, her hands tangled in his hair as they kissed. For two, three days, he was content to let this continue, necking like the teenager he had never been, immobilised by the fear that she would stop, until desperation called and he snapped.

“Can I --” he began, not finishing because she said, “ _Yes_.”

 _Yes_ , his wolf repeated, lest Bran not have caught it

He had very definitely caught it. He had one hand underneath her shirt and another gripping a handful of her hair to direct her mouth more firmly against his before the word had even finished. Content to give her the feeling of control on top of him, he pulled off his shirt before tackling her own and tossing it aside. Her bra was lace and impractical and he stared at her breasts, spilling from the delicate cups from their manoeuvring. “Is this new?” he asked, certain this was not her usual style. It was the type of underwear worn only to be removed.

“Mmm, a couple of weeks.” She reached behind and unhooked it and he had to remember to breathe. “You’re making some pretty good noises there, Bran.”

“I’m going to spontaneously combust,” he laughed, ecstatic, _relieved_ , and cupped her breasts in his hands and pressed his face between them. She smelt like chocolate orange brownies, motor oil and his soap. “ _Mercy_.”

They struggled out of jeans, their underwear, Bran loath to stop touching her. He slid his thumb between her thighs, finding her wet and ready and listened to her sigh with pleasure as he stroked her. “We can,” he said, swallowing, “go as slowly as you—“

“You must be joking,” she snapped. She told hold of him and, when she finally lowered herself down on his cock, his eyes rolled back in his head. “You never swear,” she said, holding herself above him, hands pressed to his taut stomach.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said, and meant it. She laughed and he surged up into her and her laugh changed to a gasp. He wanted to roll her over, thrust into her hard, discover what made her scream but instead let her set the pace, touching her, stroking her, committing this moment to memory. A respectful time later, when he had watched her come for the first time, her head tilted back and mouth parted, he let himself go, her body draped over him, smelling of sex and sweat and them. A sense of utter calm fell and he was unconscious before he knew it. 

When he woke up, it was to the sound of music downstairs and the smell of food being prepared. He sat up abruptly, not relishing that he had fallen asleep on her and apparently been so deeply asleep she had been able to leave without waking him.

She had folded a change of clothes for him at the end of the bed. He changed without showering, knowing his skin smelt of her and when he came downstairs everyone with werewolf senses would know it.

Bran sat next to her on the space left for him on the couch and their knees touched as they exchanged conversational gambits with his family and Margi. Mercy’s body leaned into him and he knew his eyes lingered on her every gesture, to the detriment of several strains of conversation.

After everyone retired for the evening, the door had barely closed behind them in the bedroom before he pulled her dress from her and dropped to his knees to bury his face between her legs, tasting himself from earlier, tasting her.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she said, tumbling down to the floor with him.

*

They fucked. There was no other way to put it – it was base, it was instinctual, for Bran it was the release of months of tension, the final healing of their tormented situation.

In their bedroom, in their bathroom. The shower. The floor. Any floor. It felt like every time they had each other, the bond between them strengthened.

On his desk in the study, barely undressed, his hands pressed against the wood and their eyes intent upon each other as he moved inside her. He spread her legs on the kitchen table and thrust into her so so hard that she shrieked his name. He sucked on her breasts on the couch whilst watching a movie as she took him inside of her. They didn’t sleep; her legs over his shoulders as he drove into her over and over again, as she slipped him inside of her, still wet from minutes before, as he sucked her clit and she rubbed her wetness over his face and took him in her mouth. Watching her orgasm was a drug to him; he strove for it, thought about it at every moment of the day, like a teenager in heat.

“This is worse than before,” Charles surmised, giving up on trying to have a sensible conversation with him one day after Mercy had merely stuck her head into his study to ask if Charles was joining them for lunch. Bran had become entirely distracted. “Are we going to have to hose you two down? I’m glad Sam’s not living here; someone might have died.”

Bran growled at him.

*

“At some point this will calm down, right?” Mercy said to him that evening, panting as she writhed underneath him on the couch that would now smell like them for months unless they got it professionally cleaned. “Oh, please, please, do that again.”

He thrust, minutely, to the left. The crackling fire gave her skin a warm, ethereal glow. “There?”

“Yes, yes, yes, there.”

He did it again, and again, and was rewarded when she shuddered her way through another orgasm, clenching around him. He drew himself out and in, feeling a trickle of sweat crawl down his back. “I love being inside you,” he said, words he had not said out loud ever before. It did not sound better in his native tongue. He was becoming cliché of a man.

She spread her legs wider, beckoning him further inside and meeting his thrusts, and he felt himself start to come, pushing her thighs, burying himself deeper as he shuddered. This time, he thought to himself again, _this time_ had surpassed even last time.

Bran wanted to explain to her that it had not been like this, before, but it seemed indiscrete. Disrespectful of the women he had been with in his past. Women who had meaning. A prideful, very male part of him wanted to ask if it had been like this with Adam. If the lust for each other had been an insane, uncontrollable thing.

Was it just that this was new? he wondered. He had been Leah for a comparatively long time. He couldn’t quite remember what it was like in the beginning, when his wolf first took her as a mate. He felt for sure if it had been anything like this he would have mourned its loss keenly.

*

It became truly absurd the moment they found themselves parked off-road halfway up a mountain, parting layers of clothing to reach skin, attempting to have sex in the back of his truck.

“This is absolutely not designed for this,” Mercy said, sounding somewhat surprised. Static had her hair standing on end, clinging to the roof. “The movies lie.”

Bran snorted. “I concur.” He half imagined someone stopping and finding them. A Wildling, perhaps. The Marrok of the wolves, his jeans at his knees, his mate kneeling above him, gently angling the tip of his cock to her wet entrance and guiding it inside. His head hit the back of the seat and one hand punched the roof, denting it. “Mercy – fuck – darling.”

“Darling?” she said, laughing as she sank down upon him.

He rubbed her clit; the truck was rapidly cooling, even for his body temperature. “I want you to come soon,” he told her, trying to be firm amongst the anarchy.

She rose and fell on top of him, her expression almost dreamy. “You keep doing that,” she instructed, “and I will.”

The angle was difficult – every time he thrust up, some part of his body hit some feature of the truck – but they got a good rhythm and she came moments before he did. They slumped, bonelessly, against the back seats, Bran still half-hard inside her, shuddering through the final notes of his orgasm. “I have never—“ he began, then stopped himself.

“In a truck? Really?” she said, misinterpreting.

It was a surprising thought. “No, actually. Never came up.”

She snorted. “So to speak.”

“So to speak,” he agreed with a smile, carefully separating them. He started to dress her, rubbing her arms. “You’re getting cold.”

She tucked him carefully back into his jeans. “I don’t feel it.”

“You will. It’s late.” They had been out all day, re-familiarising her with the area in human form. “We need to get home and get you into bed.”

“So we can do it again?” she said with a wry twist to her mouth. Bran felt momentarily embarrassed. She caught that and cupped his cheek. “It’s not bad, Bran. It’s the opposite of bad.”

“It feels a little out of my control,” he explained. Nothing was out of his control.

“I _like_ that about it,” she said, kissing him affectionately. “It’s sex. It shouldn’t be organised. It can be surprising.”

But sex, for Bran, had been organised. It had been functional. It had been… a mood changer, a soother, a way to communicate that didn’t involve words or promises. It hadn’t been like _this_. He had licked every part of her body. They’d had sex in every room of his house. If they had been just animals, he’d have thought—

He froze. “Mercy, are you on birth control?”

She stopped what she was doing, which had been nibbling on his ear. “Oh damn.”

“It’s fine. It’s just—“

She covered her face with her hands. “Yes, I know. I just hadn’t thought about renewing my prescription. I hadn’t—well.”

“No,” he said. He had not expected this either. And it had not been an issue. Before. But she was coyote’s daughter and the rules were different. His wolf purred in satisfaction. _His wolf had thought about this._

“I should do that.”

“Yes,” he said.

At home, warm, fed, they prepared for bed. Sex was out of the question now, Bran told himself, undressing. They had to be responsible. In the morning, he would buy prophylactics whilst Mercy waited to get her new prescription.

“I mean – it probably wouldn’t make a difference now,” Mercy said, in the dark, later.

Bran started to shimmy out of his shorts. “You’re right.”

When he was inside her, tight and close, their breath mingling together, she whispered, “You could always pull out.”

He thrust and she gasped. “I could do that,” he said, thinking about it.

When he came, they looked each other in the eye. She tightened her legs around his waist and held him close as he shuddered. 

In the morning, sleepily, he slipped inside her from behind before he’d really thought about it. He moved slowly, shallowly.

“This is... not a good idea,” she moaned, arching back as he palmed her breasts.

“Agreed,” he said, biting down on her shoulder. He rolled her over, pushing her thighs up so he could get deeper. She made small, delighted whimpers and came with a sharp cry. Her hands cupped the sides of his head when he followed suit, stroking his hair. He kissed her. “We are unbelievably irresponsible.”

She ‘mmm’d and ran her hands down his shoulders. “It’s statistically very unlikely.”

“We are not statistically anything,” he said, pulling out of her with an obscene noise. He would have to think about this now.

*

It didn’t occur to him how excruciating it would be buying condoms until he was in the aisle, had walked past them twice and then pretended to look at women’s hair accessories with a degree of intensity he would have reserved for hunting.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, grabbing a box at random and glaring furiously at the human daughter of one of his pack as he paid. She bowed her head and made no comment, lips pressed whitely together. The news would be around the town in minutes, he surmised. There was probably a phone tree for this sort of thing. 

Mercy did not fair much better, of course. _Samuel_ had been the one to write her prescription, after all. He commiserated with a wince; that couldn’t have been comfortable. “Though, he certainly made it clear he doesn’t want a new little brother or sister,” she said.

Bran raised his eyebrows. He had no intention of taking his son’s feelings into account with regards to any ‘family planning’ he may be considering. “He thought Charles was adorable.”

“That may well have-- Bran, these are _flavoured_ ,” she spluttered with laughter, looking at the box he had left on the dash.

Which is how, when the story did circulate the town, it ended with the Marrok and his new mate howling with unconstrained laughter in the truck, tears running down both of their faces.

*

The birth control helped. Bran suspected his wolf had been involved, inspiring his drive to have sex and now that an unplanned pregnancy was not going to be likely, the drive was no longer as all-consuming. Bran was back in control. Which meant Charles no longer hesitated before sitting on any surface in the house and members of the pack didn’t avert their eyes when they visited. Bran still had an entirely Pavlovian reaction to a particular armchair in the living room, however, so they moved that into the bedroom, which solved the problem.

He got work done. He sent Charles and Anna out to deal with a strange death in New Orleans. Sam and Ariana disappeared rather short notice to location unknown, which was becoming a trend with them – Mercy thought they were doing secret government work. Bran took Mercy to visit the Wildlings. She got on particularly well with Wellersley, when he returned for breaks from his witch hunting. Asil was teaching her, with Kara, how to garden. There were several more ‘girls nights’ which, oddly, seemed to include Ben, and Mercy always came back tipsy and adventurous. Bran was thinking of making girls nights a monthly mandatory.

“It’s easier now,” she told the small of his back, where she had laid her head.

He was half asleep. They were on the floor of their bedroom, again, and would need to launder the rug by the bed. “Hmm?”

“S’easier. All my secrets are here.”

Bran summoned some energy and rolled over and scooped her up, so they could tumble into bed together. He thought of Leah, and Sage, and sighed. “You still need to be careful with your secrets,” he said, kissing her neck, her mouth, her fluttering, closed eyelids.

“You’ll help, though.”

He nodded. “I’ll help.”


	5. Chapter 5

Divorce papers arrived one morning, reminding Bran that there were human repercussions of their very Other situation. Mercy still wore her wedding ring, which he had turned a blind eye to, and found himself steeling himself against the tears that rolled down her face at the papers.

“It’s a formality,” Charles said gently. “The house, the bank accounts, everything the Columbia Basin Pack has is in Adam and your names. With Adam – “

“In Faerie, with his fae _wife_ ,” Mercy growled, wiping her face with her hands.

“With Adam in Faerie, Darryl has no access to anything except through you and you are not the Alpha’s mate.”

Mercy cast beseeching dark eyes towards Bran and took his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m not—I’m not crying because I’m, well, I am. But it’s not to do with us,” she explained. “I _knew_ it was over.”

“You’re still grieving, I know,” Bran said, stroking her hair, astonished that she would seek to comfort him. The wolf wanted to shred the papers, bury the thing that was hurting her. “Take all the time you need.”

She snorted and leaned against him. “No, give me a pen, we have to get this over with. I don’t like the idea of Darryl and the others suffering because of _admin_.” 

Charles took the papers away with him and Bran walked him out. “You should probably discuss making things official, too.”

“Not yet,” Bran said.

Charles didn’t like this and Bran knew he wasn’t being sentimental; it just made financial sense to him. The mating bond was all that mattered to both of them – but marriage, the human contract, was a useful tool. But Mercy wouldn’t see it that way.

*

The wedding ring moved to the other hand for a few weeks, and then disappeared completely. He didn’t notice when it did, just that one day it had. He found himself being particularly careful around her, which she was bemused by and he tapped her bare finger in explanation. “I’m sorry,” he said, apologising for something that was not his fault.

“You’ve only just noticed?” she teased, though he saw her flash of pain.

He drew her close and kissed her temple, winding his arms about her waist. “I’m unobservant.”

“You are not. You are perilously observant. Just not, potentially, about jewellery.”

They stayed together for a few moments, then broke apart when Kara appeared and presented them each with a paper plate of food, fresh from the grill. Mercy, who was responsible for Kara’s presence in the pack, thanked her and asked a few carefully chosen general questions about how she was doing. Teenagers were tetchy, Bran thought, when they felt they were being interrogated by an adult. He ate, listening with one ear to their conversation, another to the voices of the rest of the pack, gathered in groups of in the yard, eating, talking, laughing. He had noticed a few eyes straying curiously to them but few approached. 

In just over a month, it would be the anniversary of Leah’s death. He had been thinking of how to mark it. She had been his mate, she had been – in the way he prescribed – a good one, and she had been ferociously loyal to their pack. Her life and death needed to be honoured, in the right way. He would ask a few of the older ones, he thought. And Mercy, of course. He would talk to Mercy about it. She, too, had an anniversary to mark.

They talked about it later in the evening, sitting outside in the dusk. Most of the pack had gone home, a few stragglers sitting around the bonfire, on blankets. Charles and Anna were ostensibly stargazing, which seemed to involve Anna giggling and Charles making faces. If he tried, he could probably hear what had her so amused but he decided he didn’t need to, he was just content that they were happy.

“Can’t be like the wake,” she murmured, interrupting his thoughts.

He frowned. “No.” The wake had been a tense, awful thing. Mercy had attended, as all and sundry had been terrified separating them would lead to a slaughter. Few people had cried. Bran’s speech had been shocked and short and Anna, of all people, had picked up the slack. 

“Maybe a big, sit-down dinner? We could have speeches.” She paused. “Pre-planned speeches. Anna. You. Charles. I… I could say something…positive.”

His eyes widened at the very idea. “You don’t need to.”

Mercy pursed her lips. “Well, I think everyone knows she tortured me constantly—wow, you tensed up really obviously then.”

Bran eased himself back down. “Sorry. Don’t feel obliged to.”

“You’re probably right.” She slanted him a look. “I’m not sure how great it looks.”

“I don’t care about that. And no one else will. They know better.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Perhaps we could plant something as well. Fruit trees. No. _Roses_ ,” she said. “She loved white roses.”

“That would be in keeping,” he mused, his fingers drifting through her hair. Roses. Yes, he liked that. Then he smiled. “Of course, you remembered the roses, because you dyed the water green.”

“Yup.”

Bran felt his face crease with laughter. “She actually enjoyed that one. She had no idea that food dye would change their colours. For months we had rainbow roses.”

Mercy pulled a mock regretful face. “I wondered why I didn’t get punished for that. How _annoying_.”

*

“I’ve invited Jesse to come and stay.”

It took Bran a moment. He put down his pen. “Adam’s daughter.”

“Yes. And her boyfriend. I’ll put them in my old room.” She flopped into the chair in front of his desk. She was wearing a short summer dress and her legs were bare. “Is that okay?”

He nodded. He knew Mercy had been in regular contact, through phone and video calls. Jesse had gone through a difficult time as well and would want to be with her on the anniversary of Adam’s abrupt exit from their lives. “Of course, she’s more than welcome.” It would be odd having humans in the house, he thought, but at least Jesse was a werewolf’s daughter. Well. Fae now. A child of many worlds.

“Wait – the same room?” he said, suddenly.

She smiled. “Yes. They are over twenty-one.”

Bran suffered for a moment. “Couldn’t they each have a room and we pretend?”

She laughed and pulled a leg up onto a chair, wrapping her arms around it. “No, that’s ridiculous.”

There was a small insect bite on her ankle and then, further up, on the meat on the inside of her thigh, a purple smudge. His thumbprint, he realised in horror. He had bruised her, at some point. His fragile coyote.

“It’s just a bruise, Bran,” she said, gently, correctly interpreting his attention. Then, because she could, she spread her legs to show the matching bruise on the other thigh, where he had held her open for him. “A sex bruise, no less.”

Then she sat there, with her legs spread, and a knowing look on her face.

He went to close the door.

*

Jesse’s boyfriend was half-fae, which Mercy had neglected to mention and Bran hadn’t thought to ask. They had not met but Bran had heard of him, the son of Siebold Adelbertsmiter, the Dark Smith of Drontheim, the seventh son of Windy Cap, the King of Norway. Bran was – not unreasonably, he thought – angry about the situation and he was spoiling for an argument that had to wait until after Mercy had shown them to their room.

“You deliberately didn’t tell me,” Bran snapped. He had followed her into the dressing room, where she was putting away clothes. 

“That is not true.” It wasn’t a lie. “I just—didn’t think about it.”

He gritted his teeth. This was almost worse because it was careless. “You didn’t think about inviting a fae into our home? Into a town like this?”

She threw up her arms. “No, I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about it because Tad is the son of my friend, because I watched him grow up, because he is Jesse’s boyfriend and she loves him. _I_ love him. I don’t consider him to be a threat. Speak to Asil; he knows him.”

If he had been angry before, Bran found his temper skyrocketing. “Not a _threat_? He is a _fae_.”

“I know that! I just didn’t think, okay, I’m sorry!”

It wasn’t a satisfying apology because she didn’t really mean it. She didn’t believe, like he did, that all fae were dangerous. There were exceptions, to her mind, and Thaddeus was one of them. Oh, she knew he could be dangerous, she knew that, she just didn’t equate that with danger to herself, to others around her. Tad, she thought, wouldn’t do anything purposefully dangerous. He could, but he wouldn’t. She had _faith_.

Bran clenched his hands to his sides, knowing something was spiralling out of control within him and unable to pin-point exactly what was wrong. It was her. It was this anniversary. It was the presence of the fae in his house. An intruder. A magically powerful, much _loved_ , apparently—

Oh, there, that was definitely part of it.

He reigned himself in, not going to get caught in a spiral of whom Mercy loved best. He would _not_ come out favourably in that regard. “I—thank you,” he said, because that was the right thing to do when someone apologised. “I am sorry I lost my temper.”

She nodded and waited, silently, angry eyes sparkling. She wasn’t afraid, he realised. She had absolute confidence that he could control himself. Sometimes, when he had argued with Leah, she had cowered in front of him. She had better self preservation instincts, Bran thought with regret.

“If I could explain myself better. You have a relationship – “ _Hate!_ “ – with Thaddeus, that I do not. You have trust, that I do not. I am always going to be wary of the impact of powerful Others on you, on myself, and on the pack. Particularly when they are in my own home.”

Mercy’s body language softened, almost dramatically. “I see that now. I am sorry, I really am. It was careless of me. I apologise.”

This was a real apology, a truthful one. He acknowledged it with a nod.

She reached out and touched his side, lightly. “Would you prefer it if I asked them to stay at the motel?”

He thought about it. It would be socially awkward, for one, but it also behoved him to build his own relationship with this Tad that his mate so loved – _hate_ , _hate, hate_ – and build up his own trust. “No, I think it will be fine.”

*

It was not, actually, fine.

Oh, Bran put on good show. He put on a good show whilst they prepared the ground for the roses as a family, as they ate lunch outside as a family and then, later, when they marked Leah’s passing with a boisterous, sit-down dinner with all the pack they could squeeze into the private room he had hired. He was friendly, he was avuncular. He stood and gave a speech about Leah, about her good qualities, weaving some much polished stories from their early days, before many had known her and were less likely to realise just how polished the stories were. With a year’s nostalgia behind them, the eyes around the table were misty and appreciative. They toasted her memory and sat down to eat.

During the meal, he was kind to Adam’s daughter, who had grown from a spirited teenager to an interesting young woman. He talked to Tad and made a great show of getting to know him. He made sure to do this when Mercy was watching, too, so he could show her just how fine he was. 

Very occasionally, he stepped out for some air and his fingers easily changed to claws so that he could gouge, slowly, soothingly, some deep furrows in the brickwork of the wall behind the back of the restaurant. But he made sure no one saw him do that, so that was _fine_ too.

Mercy drove them home, as the only one who hadn’t had anything to drink, and Bran kept up a constant stream of chatter with Jesse and Tad, sitting in the back of the truck. He invited them for a nightcap and showed Jesse how to make a Negroni and Tad an Old Fashioned. He sent them to bed, afterwards, Jesse very definitely drunk and Tad smiling in a way that suggested the evening had not been what he expected.

In their bedroom, Mercy had taken off her shoes but was lying in the middle of her their bed, still dressed, a cushion clutched to her middle. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Quite the performance, Bran. Really. Five stars.”

He slammed their bedroom door closed. She didn’t jump in surprise, just narrowed her eyes at him. “ _Now_ will you tell me what has been going on in your head all day? Charles thought you’d been possessed.”

Furious, at himself as well as her, as well as Charles, and Tad, and Jesse, and this entire day, he stalked off into the bathroom where, in running the shower and brushing his teeth, he managed to break a tile, the faucet in the basin and the little dish that held the soap. He put his fist through the wall by the mirror, on purpose.

After which, he sat on the edge of the bath and did some deep breathing exercises whilst the cuts on his hand healed.

Mercy came to stand in the doorway. She had changed into one of his T-shirts, a longer one that covered her to mid-thigh and one that she regularly slept in. He liked it the most because it was thin and clung tantalising to the outline of her breasts, showed the darker circles of her nipples. 

Even amongst his fury, the wolf and Bran hungered for her. He could kiss her, now, drown in her. He found himself staring at the apex of her thighs, visualising being inside of her, that moment of absolute peace. He shook his head and looked away. Sex would not be a good idea right now.

“You haven’t got a handle on it, then.”

“No,” he said curtly.

She walked past him and turned off the shower, opened a window to let the steam out. She came to stand by him. He contemplated biting her thigh, just a little. _Mine._ “Do you even know what it is?” she asked softly.

He flexed his hands in his lap, remembered the sensation of scraping claws through brick like a knife through butter. “Just a hangover from this morning.”

She took a handful of his hair and pulled. It felt good, because it hurt a little, so he let her keep doing it. “Tad. Him being a danger to us.”

“Yes.”

She scraped her nails over his scalp, sending little shivers of pleasure down his spine, and pulled his hair again. He closed his eyes. She started to use two hands. “You talked about Adam a lot at dinner.”

The topic change surprised him. “Did I.” He didn’t really want to talk about Adam.

“Adam this, Adam that. How wonderful Adam was. A great leader. A great father.”

He dropped his head to give her better access to his scalp and she was close enough now that her legs brushed his arm. “I _was_ talking to his daughter.”

“You did it to others.”

He hadn’t noticed. He could barely remember what he had said. Just knew he had to keep on talking. “He was all those things.”

“You are a great man too. A great leader. A great f—“

“I am _not_ that,” Bran said, resolutely, pulling away from her abruptly and escaping the bathroom.

She tracked him and watched him as he changed. He wondered if he should go sleep somewhere else. If she was going to keep talking, he wasn’t sure he would last the night. He would probably rend the mattress to shreds.

Mercifully, she said nothing, though, just climbed into her side of the bed and switched out the light. He waited for a moment whilst she settled on her side, facing him like she always did, and then he did the same.

Bran lay in the dark and thought black thoughts.

*

In the morning, things felt better. Daylight could sometimes be a great cure-all.

He went to brush his teeth and came back to unwrap Mercy from the tangle of bedding. She eyed him warily, but petted his head when he mouthed her breasts though her T-shirt, suckling wet spots over her nipples, biting them through the cloth. She writhed against him, rubbing herself on the thigh he pressed between her legs.

Bran pulled her further down the bed and pinned her wrists above her head. He had just enough sense to look her in the eye. “Is this okay?” he managed.

She considered it, and then nodded. “But kiss me, please,” she said.

Something eased inside of him. He kissed her. He released her wrists and cupped her face, slanting his lips over hers, opening her mouth with his tongue and tasting her. She laughed against him. “Let me brush my teeth,” she said, squirming and trying to get up. “I must taste revolting.”

“No.” He kissed her again and slipped his fingers between her thighs, teasing her. He slid down her body, suddenly needing to kiss her there, as well, where she was wet for him. He licked into her, lapped up her wetness, mouthed her clitoris until she was mewling, fingers clutching at his hair, pulling. He pulled her legs over his shoulders and worked her harder, tracing circles around her slippery flesh, dipping into her, laying his tongue flat against where she needed it the most and rubbing with his face. Her cries became marked, rising in pitch and frequency. She came, empty but for just the tip of his tongue, fluttering around him and against his mouth.

“Bran,” she panted, “please.”

He sat back and pushed her legs apart, baring her to him, wet and pink. He rubbed the head of his cock between her, making her yip with pleasure as he stroked over sensitive flesh. He teased her, and him, easing the head against her entrance and then slipping away, drawing out the exquisite pleasure. She tossed her head from side to side, pleading. “Please, please, Bran,” she demanded.

When he finally entered her, she was so wet, he slid home in one, deep stroke. He held himself still, embedded inside her, Mercy making small upwards thrusts, all she could manage with his grip on her thighs holding her down. “Bran,” she demanded.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I want you.”

It wasn’t quite right, he thought, shaking his head. He thrust, nonetheless, because he needed to. Had to. He picked a steady pace, deep strokes, pulling all the way out and plunging back in. He stared down at their joining, a miraculous thing. They had this, he thought. That was good enough.

“Bran,” she said, pulling his hair again. “Look at me.”

He dragged his eyes up. She looked debauched, mouth swollen, hair blown out of her plait, her T-shirt damp with patches of his saliva. “You are so beautiful,” he said in awe. As always, she looked thrown. He released her legs so he could lean over her, kiss her mouth, growl. “You’re beautiful. Let me show you.”

He let go his hold on their mate bond, a mental grip so profound he could control the flow of individual words from his thoughts should he so choose, and he always chose to. He let her see what he did, the great all consuming wonder of her.

“Oh, Bran,” she sighed, overwhelmed. “Oh, _Bran_.”

*

He made everyone pancakes for breakfast, feeling cheerful. Charles and Anna were going to take Jesse and Tad on a hike, he was told. It had been agreed the night before.

“Do you want to come too?” Jesse asked them, sweetly.

It was on the tip of Bran’s tongue to say yes but Mercy beat him to it, surprising him by declining. “No, thank you. Bran and I have something to do this morning. Charles and Anna will take great care of you.” She frowned at Jesse's feet. “Do you have hiking boots?”

Jesse rolled her eyes. “Yes, _Mom_.”

“Yes, but have you worn them before?”

“Yeah, on that hiking trip in college.”

“The one where you had blisters so bad you couldn’t walk for a week?” Mercy said drily. “I remember. Those are the _same_ boots?”

Watching this exchange, Bran ate his pancakes and hummed, wondering what Mercy’s plans for them were this morning.

*

They saw the children off into Charles and Anna’s capable hands, after Mercy had interrogated Anna’s first aid kit thoroughly, to the amusement of everybody. To his surprise, Mercy wandered off upstairs, leaving him to his own devices. He supposed if by ‘plans’ she had meant ‘do nothing together’, that wouldn’t technically be a lie.

He stood at the base of the stairs and wondered if they needed to talk about last night.

He sighed and followed her up.

She wasn’t in their bedroom, as he expected, but was standing in the middle of Leah’s, a room he hadn’t gone inside since she had died. The drapes were closed and the air smelt musty. He stood in the doorway, unwilling to enter.

“I suppose I should do something about this,” he said, slowly, looking around. Bran realised he had deliberately not thought about this room, even though it was joined through the dressing room to their own. It was as if he had shut it away from his thoughts. Shut her away.

Mercy nodded, hands on her hips, and walked over to Leah’s dressing room, behind the bed. “We should donate her clothes and shoes,” she called to him. “Not here, no one here wants to smell like a memory, but maybe take them into the city. Most of them are designer. They’ll make someone on hard times very happy.”

Bran touched the dust on the dressing table, picked up some jewellery Leah had cast aside. He had, occasionally, bought her expensive jewellery, usually when he had done something casually cruel and wanted to acknowledge it dispassionately. He had ignored her, frequently, sometimes for weeks at a time. Sided with one of his sons over her. Sided with both sons over her. And kept secrets, of course. So many secrets.

There was a photo of him, in a small silver frame, a casual, candid photo of him smiling. It had been a windy day, whenever it had been taken. He looked young and happy. He had no photos of her.

The memory from the previous night of claws ripping through brickwork returned. He squeezed his eyes tightly closed.

“You should talk about her. Not with me, if you feel you can’t,” Mercy said softly behind him. “You’re hurting very badly, Bran. I felt it.”

Ah. He regretted, bitterly, his impulse this morning to let her through his defences. It felt insane, in retrospect. He knew things weren’t…quite right.

“You are allowed to grieve for her. You loved her.”

He scoffed and flicked the photo of himself facedown and prowled around the room, picking up knick-knacks, the small trinkets that Leah had held on to sentimentally. A bird’s nest, of all things, a posy of silk flowers, a desperately ugly Faberge egg – where on earth had that come from? 

“Of course you loved her.” She sounded exasperated. “I know you told her, you told _everybody_ you didn’t, so you would believe it. But you lived with the woman, made love to her for two centuries. She slept by your side. You trusted her and you had her loyalty. She was your companion. That can be love too. Even if you didn’t want it to be.”

“Fine,” he said, dismissively. What did it matter if he loved Leah or not? She was dead. She would never know, either way.

“Fine what? You’ll talk to someone?”

“I’m talking to _you_ now.”

“No, you’re being grumpy and dismissive.” She forced him to look at her, then whatever she saw in his eyes made her kiss him.

He allowed this for a short while but then attempted to deflect her from what was, apparently, a gaping wound in his psyche. He looked away and cleared his throat. “The motel could probably use the furniture. The rugs too.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.” She released him and he paced away from her, only to realise that wasn’t what he wanted, and he came back to her again. She wrapped her arms about him, face soft. “What would you like to do?” she asked.

He thought about it. “I’d like us to go for a run,” he said.

*

They went for a run or, as it was at first, a race. Coyotes were fast but Bran was small for a werewolf, so they were a better match. He raced after her, joyfully free in his other form, feeling the cool, clean air rush through his lungs.

They tracked a rabbit down in what could only be described as a highly competitive fashion. He ‘won’ and he presented his catch to her proudly, which she graciously accepted, though ate little of before nosing it towards him to finish. The fresh meat tasted life-giving, essential.

They took a nap in a spot of sunshine, Bran folded neatly around her. And he was, however briefly, content.

*

Dinner that evening was just Bran, Mercy, Charles, Anna, and the children. It was a more normal evening, with Bran content to take a back seat and allow everyone else to keep the conversation going. He found himself more contemplative, thinking over the things Mercy had said to him.

“Da?” Charles asked at one point, clearly attempting to get his attention for some time. “Are you all right?”

He finished loading the dishwasher. “I’m doing better today,” he replied, with more honesty than Charles was perhaps expecting.

“That’s good. We were all worried.”

Bran snorted. “I thought I was doing a masterful job.”

“To people who don’t know you, perhaps. At one point, I thought you were going to bite the waiter’s head off. Smiling whilst you did it.”

He winced. He didn’t remember that. “Mercy thinks—” He corrected himself. “Leah has been troubling me.”

“Oh?”

It was also difficult talking to Charles about her. It had been an accepted fact that neither of his sons had liked Leah. He had encouraged it. If his sons didn’t like her, it was another way for him to keep his distance. He had used that to his advantage, manipulated them all when it suited him. Then, of course, it had seemed sensible. A practical solution to controlling the monster instead of him, protecting his own fragile heart. Only now, now of course it seemed monstrously cowardly. She wasn’t supposed to have died first.

So he wiped down the counters and wrung out the cloth. “Yes. She has been troubling me.”

“I’m assuming you’re not talking spectrally.”

Bran halted. “Her ghost? No – oh, Mercy. No. She hasn’t mentioned, at least.” He wondered if he should ask. What a horrifying thought. “No, just plain, old fashioned guilt.”

Charles accepted this and did not offer Bran any platitudes or denials. Instead, he rested his hand on Bran’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m sorry for that, Da.”

He shrugged. “It will pass. Eventually.”

*

They said goodbye to Jesse and Tad the following day. Jesse and Mercy were red-eyed and weepy by the time they finished hugging, with promises to see each other soon and repeated requests for phone calls. Tad and Bran waited patiently for it to be over, before briskly shaking hands. 

“Thank you for having us,” Tad said.

Bran blinked at a fae saying ‘thank you’ and Tad smiled minutely.

“It’s been good having you,” Bran said, more cautiously. “Mercy enjoys your company. Please look after Adam’s daughter.”

“She doesn’t much need looking after,” Tad said, casting an affectionate look over his shoulder, “Though I try.”

Bran acknowledged that Adam would raise resourceful children. But then, he reflected, so had he. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to potential underage... interest, I guess? Nothing more than what is already in the books.

They spent the rest of the weekend packing up Leah’s things. Word had got around and a few surprise requests came in from the women of the pack. A leather jacket, a pair of boots, some designer shoes. They set aside these things and packed boxes with the rest of her clothes, ready to donate. He ran the bedding through the wash, having established Mercy was not keen on the idea of using it on their bed, and offered it, the rugs and most of the furniture to the motel. Most of the trinkets he consigned to be donated, as well, but he kept the bird’s nest for his study and asked Charles to value the egg, sending him a photo. The photo of himself had mysteriously disappeared.

“It’s tremendously ugly,” Mercy said, lying on a patch of sun on the bare floorboards, an arm draped over her eyes. “The egg, I mean.”

He turned it over in his hands. “I have no idea where it came from.”

She hmmmed. “Maybe a secret admirer.”

His wolf, now thrice mated, did not like that. She laughed. “I _felt_ that.”

“Did you?” he said, surprised. He was sitting in the armchair that was a twin to the one in their bedroom. He could nudge her leg with his toe, if he stretched out. So he did.

She raised herself up onto her elbows and nudged him back. “Yes. You were annoyed at the thought that Leah might have been admired by someone else.”

Bran pulled a face, annoyed with himself. “Men are pigs,” he said, to make her laugh, which it did. She tipped her head back and flopped back onto the floor, her body shaking. He was pleased with himself.

Smiling, he contemplated the room. The bedroom proper was a mirror of his, with large windows and high ceilings. The dressing room behind the bed was twice the size of his, of course, and led into a large bathroom, with twin basins, a bathtub and a shower. It had, he remembered, been designed as the master bedroom, but it had always been Leah’s.

“Should we move in here?” he asked, suddenly.

She sat up, crossing her legs. “You wouldn’t find it weird?”

They’d stripped the room down to its component parts. The walls were painted neutrally, like his own. It didn’t _feel_ like Leah’s room.

“I don’t know,” he said. He had slept in it occasionally, of course. Perhaps they could put the bed in a different location.

“It would make sense. We wouldn’t bump into each other when we’re brushing our teeth.”

“I like bumping into you.” He got another laugh, as he’d intended.

Her smile dimmed. “I can’t decide if I think it’s weird or not. Let’s sleep on it,” she suggested.

They both heard Charles’s car pull up outside. “That egg must be worth a fortune,” Mercy said.

*

Another girls’ night was planned for the following week. “Excellent,” Bran said in happy anticipation, which got him a curious eyeballing from his youngest son. He elected not to elaborate.

Tag suggested the men also do something together. “A BBQ, or movies. Maybe a run.”

Asil suggested a card game which Bran put a halt to, recalling a disastrous chess incident a few years back. Asil knew better. “Perhaps a team board game,” he suggested, mentally grouping his wolves so that there wouldn’t be bloodshed. He watched as the idea was picked up with enthusiasm, with suggestions of games bandied about before a general knowledge game was decided upon. As expected, Bran offered to host.

On the night, Asil arrived early and therefore first. He had a case of wine. “I am not drinking that swill Tag makes.”

Tag’s ‘swill’ was a well crafted IPA that had won several awards regionally and was increasingly sought-after. But Bran liked wine, too, and tended to enjoy Asil’s offerings. “Welcome,” Bran said easily.

Mercy emerged from upstairs in one of the three summer dresses she owned but carrying a cardigan. She greeted Asil with a peck on the check that, interestingly, did not bother Bran in the slightest but took years off Asil’s face.

He waved Asil to take a seat out on the deck and followed Mercy into the kitchen, purely so he could touch her. This was the dress which she wore without a bra and had once described to him as ‘borderline risky’, whatever that meant.

“This is my favorite,” he said, flicking open the buttons on the tight bodice so he could get inside.

“You’ve mentioned that.” She drank her bottle of water, graciously giving him free access to her breasts and tilting her head to the side so he could kiss her neck. Her lips were painted so out of bounds. She halted the wandering of his hand up her thigh. “I have to leave in ten minutes and you have guests arriving. You can ravish me later. I promise.”

“Are you going to have a glass of wine?”

She looped her arms around his neck and rubbed her cheek against his. “I might.”

He couldn’t hold back his glee and sucked a little mark on her neck. “Maybe two glasses?”

She attempted to look prim. “If you’re very, very good and stop claiming my neck as your territory.”

He paused in the act of, as she put it, claiming his territory and instead gave her a quick kiss on the lips. The lipstick tasted waxy and he licked it off. “If they’re here when you come home, you have my permission to kick them out.”

“I understand,” she said agreeably. “For the ravishment.”

“Just so.”

*

Sam returned for a visit, minus Ariana.

“Is everything all right? Is she all right?” Mercy asked, reaching out to rub his arm consolingly.

Bran considered this natural affection between his mate and his son. He had never wanted to ask how far things had ever gone between them and now he found himself simultaneously wanting to know and also very much not. They didn't have the body language of two people who had ever been intimate, he thought.

“She’s fine.” Samuel didn’t sound as if that was the case, but it at least wasn’t a lie. “You look better,” he said, looking Mercy up and down with a doctor’s eye. At least, Bran hoped it was a doctor’s eye.

He firmly told himself to get a grip. “Are you staying here?” he asked, curiously, looking at the bag at his feet.

“If that’s okay?” Sam looked hesitantly between the both of them.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mercy wanted to know, before Bran could suggest he might want to stay with his brother. Or at the motel. Or anywhere else, really. “Here, let’s go and pick your room. We’ve been moving things around. You can tell me if you think it’s weird that we’re thinking of moving into Leah’s room. Everyone is divided. Half think it’s incredibly morbid and half think we’re making a big deal over nothing. Or I am, at least.”

Sam gave his father a wordless look over his shoulder and then followed Mercy upstairs.

*

Bran realised in the first few hours that Ariana’s absence was nothing to do with Ariana and something to do with Sam’s intended purpose for being back in the US. Which he was vague about.

“Are you investigating something?” Mercy asked, leaning across the table to grab the bottle of water to refill her glass half-full glass. Bran intercepted this and poured for her, then for Sam, then for himself. She rubbed his knee in thanks and then continued interrogating Sam. “A secret mission for the government?”

“I don’t work for the government, Mercy.” Sam took a gulp of his wine. “What about you? Are you looking for work?”

Bran picked at his pasta thoughtfully, wondering what angle Sam was chasing. From his tone, he definitely was chasing something.

Mercy sighed. “I should, I guess. I was thinking of offering my services to Gus in town, maybe on a part time basis.”

“You must miss your garage.”

“I do and I don’t. Towards the end, it was becoming too challenging – juggling work with the inevitable fallout from whatever was going on with the pack. It was pretty much a horror a week.” Mercy’s voice faded off in remembrance and Bran frowned at Sam, who pretended not to see.

“Gus is a good idea,” Bran said, attempting to move Mercy away from thoughts that saddened her. “He would like the help. You should mention it to him.”

Mercy slanted him a look. “Don’t go and talk to him yourself before I do. I don’t want him pressured into something because the Marrok made him.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

*

The next day, Bran discovered that _Sam_ had escorted Mercy down to see Gus and then they had a very cosy lunch together at a diner just outside town – Sam’s treat - and shared a lavish dessert. Red velvet cake, apparently. Lots of whipped cream. This last detail was provided by Kara, who was just repeating this enviously and not because she particularly wanted to stir up trouble. Asil on the other hand…

“Nice of your boy to take her out, instead of keeping her cooped up.”

If he could have rolled his eyes into the back of his head, he would have. He waited, patiently, for Asil to continue but all Asil did was smile toothily at him, as if he knew this would be more irritating. Bran had spent many years perfecting a look of boyish insouciance and he applied it now, even if he was privately wondering if Asil had a point. He had never even taken Mercy out for dinner. Hmm.

Kara peered up at both of them. “What’s going on?” she asked, sensing the tension.

“Just an old dog up to some tricks,” Bran said, ruffling her hair. “When does school start again?”

“Next week,” she groaned, carefully fixing the damage he had done to her coiffure whilst trying to appear that she wasn’t.

“Lame,” Asil said.

“No one says lame any more, Asil,” Kara said pertly.

“Yes, Asil, no one says that,” Bran chirped, feeling immeasurably better.

*

“I have to tell you I had a weirdly horrible lunch with Sam,” Mercy whispered to him that night as they changed for bed.

“Why are you whispering?” he said, looking around them.

“Because he’s down the hall.”

Bran pulled his t-shirt over his head and tossed it onto the chair which, as well as being the ideal dimensions for sex, was also his preferred resting place for lightly used clothes. “This bedroom is soundproofed.”

Leah had insisted. With the house being frequented by so many members of the pack, soundproofing the main bedroom suites had been essential. 

“But is it soundproofed _enough_.” She climbed under the covers and arranged the pillows behind her to her satisfaction. “It was weird and horrible, Bran.”

“Tell me,” he said, relieved he hadn’t had to bring the subject up himself. She may not have truly acknowledged that the pack reported sightings of her going about her life to the Marrok. He wondered if he should put a stop to it. She was bound to hate it, he thought, as a representation of her lack of privacy and the perception that she was to be looked after. Maybe when the pack bonds were properly in place, he would instruct them all to back off.

The bed was big enough that should he wanted to, he could have kept nearly six feet between them. When he had shared with Leah, that was how it had been. Instead, like a needy teenager, he crawled over until he was sharing the same pillows with her. With Sam in the house, bringing with him some ineffable tension, he had been looking forward to being alone with her all day.

“So, things are definitely not right with him and Ariana. She rang him twice whilst we were in the diner and both times he hung up.” She raised her eyebrows at him significantly, which told him in no uncertain terms that if she were to ever phone him and he hung up in such a way, there would be retribution.

“Good to know,” he said, taking on board this feedback.

“You’re welcome. We talked a bit about Gus – oh, I went to see him and you’re right, he does want a hand - and then we talked a bit about the work he was doing in Zimbabwe. He denied the secret government work.”

“Shocking.”

“Then he started to talk about when I was a kid, growing up here. At first it was normal stuff, you know, the pranks I used to pull, reminiscing, the stupid piano performance.” She scowled and he kissed her shoulder, wincing at a shared, terrible memory. 

“I’m sorry, again, really,” he said contritely, because he was. Considering she had only been human, and long dead now, he thought of Evelyn frequently. She had been a good person, a loyal spouse to her werewolf husband, and a kind foster parent to Mercy. 

“Mmm, so, then, out of nowhere, he asks me if you had ever made me feel uncomfortable as a child.”

Bran pressed his nose and mouth to her upper arm and breathed her in. “Did he now.”

“At first, I didn’t know what he meant. I mean, you were my Alpha, you were, are, I should say, plenty scary. But he didn’t mean that.” He felt her turn her head to look down at him. “Do you know what he meant? He meant did you ever make a move on me. _As a child._ ”

Bran felt absolute calm descend upon him. This had gone in a surprising direction, considering the source was his eldest son. “Which I didn’t.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I told him that and I asked him, quite naturally, what on earth he was talking about, why he felt he had to come all the way over - because it’s obvious to me now that this is the reason he came here – to ask me if you had been, been, _interfering with me_. Particularly given the nature of his attentions towards me back then, the massive hypocrite.” She had returned to whispering again, but likely because it was a topic she found so appalling it couldn’t be said in normal tones.

“And what did he say to that?” he asked, making small, stroking movements on her arm with his fingers.

“He said that the reason Leah hated me, the real reason, was that she thought you – I don’t know – wanted me, in some way. And she was jealous.”

She fell silent for a moment and Bran, fully aware that it was his turn to speak, made a noise that could have meant anything and planned his next steps.

It would be, he thought, entirely reasonable if he went down the corridor and killed Sam. Since Sam was his son, Bran adjusted this vision so that all he did was repeatedly punch his eldest in the face. The thought was… tantalising. So tantalising that he sat up and leaned towards the door, before Mercy put a hand on his arm. “Wait. Talk to me first.”

He sat back, the pleasant vision of bloodying Samuel’s nose dissipating. “You will not like what I’m going to say. Not in its entirety.”

“Oh for the love of Pete,” she said, dropping back into her pillows and closing her eyes.

“To be one-hundred-percent crystal clear, at no point during your actual childhood did it ever occur to me that I might physically desire you. _Ever_. I did not think of you in that way, I did not want to touch you in that way.”

He looked at her for confirmation of his words and she nodded. “True,” she agreed.

“To give Leah’s perspective, for I feel a must, in the decades of raising wolves here, there had never been anyone whom I grew to love like I grew to love you. Like, a daughter, I thought. There was Sam, there was Charles and there suddenly was you.” He sighed. No one had been more surprised than he, when he had held her as a toddler, tossed her in the air and delighted in her giggles, and found she had wormed her way into his heart, a closely guarded place. “Leah did not like that, from the beginning. Perhaps if you had been a boy, it would have been different. If you’d been a werewolf, not a coyote who delighted in defying me. Who knows. But she saw you as competition.”

This was the point where things grew trickier. “Managing this, managing her, was a difficult line and you know as well as I did that it didn’t always work. And looking back… I reacted in ways that might not have been proportional. I made decisions that I regret.”

Mercy grunted. He felt a tremor of hurt through the mate bond and he took her hand. She let him, which he saw as a good sign. "Was that it, then? The only reason she hated me?"

“To a degree, I think, yes." He squeezed her hand. "And that you could have children, but still run with the pack."

"When they let me," Mercy muttered. 

"But there was… something. Or the potential for something. We were here, having dinner, one night. A big group of us. You were sixteen, you’d been living alone for nearly two years. Actually, you might remember. It was a birthday – Jimmy’s? He moved on the following year, just after you did.”

“I remember Jimmy. He was funny, right?”

“He was- _is_ very funny and evenings with him were some of the best I can remember.” Jimmy was one of the wolves whom Bran had allowed to go public. He had a small stand-up act which was now a large stand-up act, partially due to the fame that came with being a publicly acknowledged werewolf.

“Anyway. I was sitting at the table, Leah on my left,” he gestured, as if the bed was the table, picturing the scene clearly, “Charles on my right. Sam was down the other end of the table, sitting with you – _flirting_ with you.” He found himself annoyed at this, as he had been that night, watching his ancient son turn the charm on a teenager. By then Mercy hadn’t been precisely innocent, no child who grew up in a werewolf pack could be, but she would have been easy pickings for Sam.

“I hadn’t spoken to you all evening but you were angry with me, then, always so angry with me for how I let her treat you.” He swallowed his regret and ploughed on. “And Jimmy was off on one of his stories, had the whole of us in stitches with the build up. As he delivered his punchline, I remember falling about with laughter and looking down the table because the person I most wanted to share that moment with was you. And that was when things changed for me. And I think Leah knew that, too. I think she had seen it coming.”

Mercy sat forward, her cheeks pink. She pulled her hand away to wrap her arms around her bent knees. “Okay. I mean. But you didn’t, you know. _Want_ me. Like that?”

He lifted and dropped a shoulder, not ashamed, precisely. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t let it get that far. All I was able to recognise on that night was that something wasn’t quite right, that something fundamental had shifted for me. But I tried not to think about it. It was too disastrous. If what happened with Sam hadn’t happened… well. I don’t know what. But if you’d stayed, as you got older, I suspect things would have been different. The wolf would never have let me cheat on Leah, even if you were receptive. I hope I... would not have done that either. In any case, I put whatever it was away successfully. It was easier with you gone. But, do you remember, when you came back here, with Adam? I brought you lunch and we sat in your room, alone for the first time since you were sixteen.”

She nodded. “I remember.”

“I balanced on my chair. You told me off, said humans didn’t do that, unless it was to impress their girlfriends. Because, of course, that was why I was trying to do.” Extraordinary how desire could bring him down to his most basic of instincts. He had been embarrassed, at the time, and angry with her. He'd sent Sam with her, as punishment.

Bran looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. She had her head tilted to the side, thoughtful.

“So when Leah died,” she said slowly, surprising him with her direction, “your wolf picked me.”

He winced. “Yes.”

“Because you were already pre-disposed towards me?”

He threw a hand in the air. “Possibly. I've wondered. But that’s not always how it works. He doesn’t necessarily care what the man wants. I think it was more likely that you were vulnerable. The fae had violently severed your connection to Adam and we both wanted to protect you. He does consider you to be his, he always has.” _And for the children,_ the monster thought. Bran chose not to share this with her, as it made him no better than Sam.

She blew out a breath and said nothing for several seconds. “This is a lot.”

“Too much?”

Her head tilted. “No. I don’t think so. It’s just… a big change of perspective.” She rested her head on her knees. “I thought—I guess I thought that it was as different for you, as it was for me. When Leah died and Adam went away. That it was a surprise.”

“It was still a surprise, Mercy. The strength of it. I have not—“ He sighed. “I’m sorry you found out this way. It didn’t seem significant – nothing ever happened or would have happened. Love is love,” he said, eventually. “I was happy Adam made you happy. Most of the time.”

She let that settle for a moment, a shadow of sadness crossing her face. Then she seemed to shake it off. She gave him a sly look. “Do you still want to punch Sam?”

“Thank you for reminding me,” Bran said, jumping out of bed to go and do just that.

*

After taking a moment to ascertain that Sam was not, in fact, losing his humanity to his wolf, and had just instead made a very stupid leap of imagination, he punched Sam. Repeatedly. And then allowed Sam to return the favour. It was very satisfying. They then had a screaming argument in Welsh which, Mercy told him later, had proved that the soundproofing was really very good and she would have no qualms in the future in having loud and exuberant sex with him whilst they had werewolf guests in the house.

“I’m thrilled to hear that we will be having sex after this, both with or without guests,” Bran told her, beaming through his split lip.

“Since you’re not, actually, a child molester, I’m feeling pretty confident about that.”

“Glad to hear it,” he said drily, counting this as one of the oddest conversations he’d ever had.

She applied the bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a towel, unnecessarily to his swollen eye. He winced, not because it particularly hurt but because part of the enjoyment of being ministered to – which was a rarity - was ensuring that he got maximum sympathy. As demonstrated, when she stroked his hair.

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Also, all I can really tell is that you cared about me. I don’t think that story about dinner says anything other than that. And even if it did, you didn’t act upon it. You didn’t even contact me when I left. You even gave me away at my wedding, for goodness sake.” She dabbed the cut on his lip with an antiseptic swab, then wiped the blood from his chin. "Maybe Leah just hated me because I didn't obey her mindlessly like everyone else."

“I placed you above Leah, that’s all she cared about,” he muttered.

“Well, your marriage was a whole other mess. Your mess,” she said sternly.

“I know.” He sighed and leaned against her. She was soft and warm and his. He was so relieved, as if a festering wound had been lanced. He felt lighter. “Do you want to check on Sam?”

“Not really. I think accusing your father of being a child molester is probably something he should be left to think about, alone. What _possessed_ him? And, like, he can talk. He tried to run away with me when I was sixteen.”

“What can I say, you’re obviously catnip to the Cornicks.”

Mercy’s mouth dropped open around a shocked smile. “Bran. That was—“

“Too soon?”

“ _Appallingly_ too soon.”

*

Mercy had not asked what he and Sam had argued about, assuming it was predominantly Bran expressing his fury over his son’s accusations.

Obviously that had been part of it.

Part of it had been a mutual accusation of jealousy - Sam claiming that Bran’s destruction of his relationship of Mercy before she left Aspen Creek was fuelled by Bran’s personal desires, and Bran, in turn, accusing Sam of trying to do the same thing now.

Naturally they both denied it. Stridently. The matter, as far as Bran was concerned, was settled.

All that was left was discovering what had happened to Sam that meant he was _here_ , stirring up trouble, and not with his mate. Bran was still no closer to discovering this.

So he sent for Anna.

*

Anna returned with a pack of photographs and a small smile. She came around his desk, to his surprise, and kissed his cheek. “You’re going to be a grandpa,” she said.

Unbidden, his eyes flicked to her middle, with dawning sadness. He knew she had been investigating the possibilities of bringing a child into this world herself – damn Samuel _again_ \- but thought she had at least temporarily been convinced it wasn’t possible and only led to tragedy. “ _What?_ ” How had Charles let this happen?

“Not me. Sam. Ariana, I mean.” She sat on the edge of his desk and tapped him on the shoulder as he stared at her, more than horrified. “Don’t look like that, I know it’s a mixed blessing. Just try to be happy, first, that you will have a grandchild in a few months.”

Bran had been a grandfather before, of course. Fleetingly. But they had all been products of Sam’s relationships with human women. “It’s not possible,” he said, shaking his head at the enormity. A werewolf-fae child. Neither species were reproductively fruitful, so the statistical likelihood of conception was miniscule. And what would such a thing _be_? How would it live? In whose world?

“Apparently it is. Sam is utterly blown away.”

A new thought occurred to him. “And he left his pregnant mate to come _here_. He abandoned her.” Bran couldn’t speak, his mouth suddenly filled with too many teeth for its human shape.

Anna pressed him down when he moved to stand and she hummed. “He didn’t _abandon_ her. My goodness, the men in this family. She sent him here. He’s been having dreams, nightmares, I guess. Unresolved issues. She told him to go sort it out but didn’t want to risk travelling herself, though apparently they are in the States. The baby is a girl,” she added, shrugging. “And there were these.”

A _girl_ , he thought, astonished, the thought crystallising. Not a creature. A _granddaughter_. It had lived long enough to be sexed.

She handed him a stack of photographs, drawing his attention downwards. He could already tell from the quality – and, he mused, the fact that they were printed and not on a screen – that they were old. He blinked at the first one. “It’s the pack,” he said, feeling calm descend.

It was a treasure trove of photographs taken in the 1990s, from the age and the clothing. There were familiar faces, of course, as well as lost ones. Charles, Sam. Mercy, looking only a little younger than she did now. Jimmy, Tag. Bryan and his human mate. Leah – posing, of course. He smiled. Her face was still crisp in his memory but it was somehow real-er to see her in print. “These are Sam’s?” he asked.

“They’re Sam’s.”

“Sam’s,” he murmured thoughtfully. Yes, of course. Sam had gone through a phase of using a camera, of photographing every occasion. Some of the older ones had been nervous of it – which had amused Sam, older than most as he was. He had even given Bran some – but he had passed those on to Mercy after her trailer burnt down.

Bran showed Anna a particularly good shot of Leah, looking furious and ineffably _Leah_. Anna, whose feelings about Leah were less complicated than many, smiled with genuine affection. “I realised only recently I didn’t have any photographs of her,” he admitted.

“I’m sure you can keep them. Maybe you should get a camera.”

“Maybe I should.” It was a thought that he put aside for later. “Why am I looking at these?”

“Look at the ones with you and Mercy in them.”

Bran dropped the photos onto the desk and shook his head. “No,” he said neatly, taking a wild leap into the territory this was going.

Anna nodded. “Okay. Sam said it was these, more than anything, that made him realise. He’s right. Nine times out of ten, you’re looking at her in those photographs. And you look at her like she’s the moon.” Her lips quirked. “It’s not really a surprise to me but then I’m a latecomer to this particular party so don’t have the history you guys have. To Sam, I think it was a shock. I guess he began to read too much into it and went to a dark place.”

Cornicks, Bran thought, went to dark places. “And the child would have already meant his protective instincts were already heightened.” Bran sighed, collecting the photographs into a pile and putting them aside, for later. “I see. Thank you, for doing this. I would not have got this far.” 

“He’ll be leaving soon, if you want to go and make-up.”

Bran glanced at the photos out of the corner of his eye. “I shall think about it.”

*

He did go and say goodbye. He had made many mistakes with his family, with Sam, and he wasn’t going to put anger at his children before his responsibility as a father.

“Congratulations. I look forward to meeting my grandchild,” he said formally, standing in the doorway of the motel room to which Sam had vacated.

Sam, white and tense, nodded his head. “I look forward to introducing you.”

They stood for a moment or two more, acknowledging that the survival rate of a werewolf child was small. Bran thought about all the sympathetic things he could say to his son, who was nearly as old as he and yet broken in different ways. “Next time you want to accuse me of something, perhaps you could do it to my face,” he said, instead, because he was, at his heart, merciless. 

Sam’s hands opened and closed at his sides. A full minute passed. “I’ll make sure to do that.” Another minute. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the anniversary. Charles said—it was difficult for you.”

“It was.”

Sam’s gaze roved the room, avoiding Bran’s. “Leah had many good qualities,” he said, finally, with dismay in his voice.

Bran rolled his eyes and felt the tension in the room ease. “And many bad. I know.”

Sam’s smile was quicksilver. “So many bad, Da. _So many_.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter appears to be here mostly for the sex.

They practiced with the mate bond. Unlike her previous experience, Bran had no intention of allowing the pack bonds to form until Mercy was comfortable with the one between them. Though, he had noticed, some of the pack bonds _were_ forming of their own accord, little tendrils reaching out towards her like hungry mouths. It was unusual, but for the time being he put it down to her sheer _coyote-ness_.

Mercy yanked, very hard, at the bond between them, making him wince. “Ouch,” he said, mildly.

“It’s different. I think your mind is harder than.” She stopped abruptly.

“You can compare us. Only in this area,” he amended, to be truthful.

Mercy found this funny. “I see. Your mental landscape, fine. But not, say, your height or eye colour.”

Bran frowned. His physical appearance suited him just fine but no woman would favour it in comparison with the Hollywood glamour of Adam Hauptman. “No.”

“You’re cute,” she said, tapping her fingers on her knees. “Okay. Let’s try again.”

*

“You can bond us _one at a time_? _”_ Mercy squawked as Bran held his hand out to her. She rolled her eyes to Anna, as if Anna could commiserate more than anyone else. Anna, eating a yoghurt and observing the proceedings with interest, shrugged. She knew none of her early experiences as a werewolf were normal and accepted most things as such.

Tag snorted.

“Yes, with this pack, and with you, definitely,” Bran said, recalling with absolute clarity the desire to bash Adam over the head when he heard how he had brought Mercy into his pack. Exceptional circumstances, his ass.

He waggled his fingers to her and she took his hand. He did the same with Tag. He closed his eyes and concentrated, finding the thread that was Tag in his mind.

“Ooooh,” Mercy said.

His brow furrowed and he opened an eye. “I haven’t done anything yet.” She smirked at him and he realised she was teasing. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

Tag’s face creased, his red dreadlocks dancing as he looked from one to the other. “You two are a riot.”

Bran closed his eye again and ignored them both. He had started with Tag because Tag already liked Mercy, in an uncomplicated and affectionate way. And Tag, in his own way, was a lynchpin within the pack. If Charles had been a normal Second, a werewolf Changed rather than Born, he would have started with Charles, but the bonds were different with him and he wanted the first pack bonds to be easy.

He found Tag, found Mercy and – in the simplest terms – introduced them to each other.

“There you are,” Tag grunted, opening his eyes with new awareness. “Huh. S’not so different.”

Bran released their hands. “Well?” he asked Mercy.

She nodded. “It worked. I can see him. The Christmas garlands are back,” she said. She had an air of relief, as if she had been worried it wasn’t going to work.

“Good. Anna,” Bran commanded, holding his hand out to her.

Anna put her yoghurt down and hurried over to take Tag’s place. She smiled happily at both them. “I feel like I’m part of an historic occasion. _Ad meliora!”_ she exclaimed.

Bran smiled and decided she was the favourite of all his daughter-in-laws. He repeated the same process and introduced Anna’s bond to Mercy’s. This time, Mercy ‘ooooh’ed for real. “She’s very different. Like, hmm, a feather boa.”

Tag barked with laughter. Anna looked unsure how to take this.

Mercy leaned into Bran, comfortable. “So what now?”

“We’ll leave it a couple of days and you can test them out. I’m looking for any guidance from you both,” he said, meeting Anna’s and Tag’s eyes. “Mercy’s mental landscape isn’t the same as a werewolf and she may do things that would be challenging to more fragile minds. We need to understand what that is, if anything, and learn. Then we’ll move on to introducing a few more people and then I’ll add the rest at once.”

“What about the Wildlings?” Tag asked, seriously.

“They’re last.” And, Bran thought, would require more face to face time. He had been building towards this by introducing Mercy individually. He could, obviously, control the interaction between Mercy and the pack bonds but experience specifically with Mercy’s ability to turn order into chaos had taught him that it was better to be prepared.

*

He had anticipated that Mercy would be actively engaging with their mate bond when he deliberately left it open. It was a solid thing now, to his eyes a length of silken rope that hummed tunefully and, throughout the day, Mercy pushed and pulled and prodded at it, testing her boundaries, and his. _Hello_ , she would seem to say to him, when he was holding an irritating call with one of his Alphas. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._ She’d send him her emotions – laughter, irritation, confusion. Once, panic, which had him running to discover she was corralling a bird in their laundry-room.

It was interesting, to say the least. Leah had not touched it unless to get his attention in an emergency, which had been the way he liked it. He didn't know what gifts their bond would bring them and was looking forward to finding out.

“Is it bothering you?” she asked, as they prepared dinner.

“No,” he said then, because he had to be truthful, “It’s sometimes distracting.”

“Maybe I should only do it when I know you’re not busy,” she mused.

Bran didn’t particularly want to restrain her. “It’s only because _you’re_ distracting,” he explained, dropping potatoes into the pan. “I find you hard to ignore.”

“Good!” she said.

He smiled because he liked that she liked that. “If Charles did the same thing, I would be able to ignore him.” Something occurred to him. “I don’t think I should be able to ignore my mate,” he realised. Like hanging up on her phone calls.

“No, you probably shouldn’t.”

He kissed her, because she was appealing. “So wise,” he said, laughing.

Mercy reflected her own laughter down the mate bond and hummed. “Do that again,” she said, tilting her face up.

He did.

*

“I thought we promised not to do this again,” Bran said, with absolutely no intention of putting a halt to the proceedings. He sucked hard on her neck, acknowledging without shame that the sight of his mark on her over the next few days would give him a thrill. Better than diamonds, he thought.

“It’s easier without the really big coats.” The weather was still reasonably mild. He had on a T-shirt under a light jacket. She had a sweater and a thin down coat. “Also now I know how to recline the seats,” she said, doing so and the sharp jolt backwards repositioned her on top of him, and him inside of her, in a most interesting way.

Bran sighed, happily, and helped her move above him. “Oh, yes, we should always do this,” he said. He pushed her sweater up over her bra so he could look at her, then decided that wasn’t enough and unclipped her so her breasts bounced free. He gazed at her, in awe. “Every time we take a journey.”

Mercy pressed her hands to the roof, giving her more purchase, and for minutes there was no sound in the vehicle except for their panting breaths and the slick noises of their coupling. He felt the first pulls of his orgasm and reached down between them. She was close, he thought, grazing his fingers over her. He pressed down on the bundle of nerves and she froze, her mouth open in a circle. She clenched down around him and then, to his absolute surprise, bounced her climax at him down the mating bond.

Stunned by the sudden, rippling alien pleasure of it, he came, loudly, significantly harder and faster than he was expecting. He heard, through the ringing in his ears, her crying out his name and felt his lips mouth hers as he thrust frantically up into her with force, spending himself over and over again.

When it was over, when the quakes had receded, he slumped back in the seat, no more able to hold himself upright than a new-born would. “That was…”

“Yeahhhh,” she said, sounding drunk. She was holding herself up by the handle above the window.

Bran blinked up at her in astonishment. He had never come so hard, _in his life._ It was like his orgasm had been dragged from his soul. Even his hands were shaking, he realised. If they were attacked now, he wasn’t sure he would have the wherewithal to adequately protect her.

Is was that thought that spurred him to ask, “Are you all right?” He realised that towards the end he hadn’t considered his own strength and her relative lack of it.

“I’m amazing.”

He laughed silently. “You are that.”

He set himself the challenging task of easing himself from her body, wincing at his sensitivity. She pulled the lever that brought his seat forward and, since he was now so close, he got distracted and took her nipple in his mouth. She ‘mmm’d and gripped him by his hair, draping herself over him.

Bran pulled back with a wet ‘pop’ and made himself ask. “Did Adam show you that?”

Mercy petted his head. “Would you prefer to think that I was struck by inspiration?”

That was a ‘yes’, then. “It’s very creative,” he said, begrudgingly.

“You’ve never done it before?”

“No.” Absolutely _not_ , he thought, imagining that level of intimacy, that level of weakness, with Leah and rejecting it out of hand.

Mercy leaned back to look at him. She could not have looked more delighted. “I showed _you_ a new thing!” she crowed.

He laughed, out loud. “You definitely did. And I am very grateful to have received this education.” It was rare to learn new things but he was coming to realise it was something she had always been able to give him. One of her gifts.

She giggled, and continued to giggle, as they got dressed and stumbled around to get into the front seats. Bran stared at the car wheel, vaguely concerned he couldn’t remember how to drive. Thank goodness for muscle memory, he thought, turning the key in the ignition. 

It was just starting to get dark when they reached home and Mercy’s cell phone pinged with messages as the signal connected. She read them whilst they walked to the door, then stopped, and groaned. “Oh no,” she said, flushing bright red.

“What is it?” He came over to read the screen. A message from Anna. “It’s gibberish,” he said. He hated texting.

“It’s emojis,” she explained. “It’s a series of thank you hands, then heart eyes, then little fires. From the time stamp, I think I might have… conveyed our activity through the pack bonds. Don’t you dare laugh.”

Bran pressed his lips together very, very hard.

“Oh she’s sending another message… she says ‘Charles says thank you very much as well’.” Mercy covered her face with her hands. “This is so embarrassing. What about Tag? I won’t be able to look him in the eye.”

“Well, she’s right to bring it up. We will have to, ah, practice.” He almost skipped to the house at the prospect.


	8. Chapter 8

The October full moon was fast approaching and with it the decisions on the petitions to be Changed by the Marrok. The previous year, it had been agreed – despite his fervent denials - that Bran was not in the right mental state to be changing anybody, so the responsibility had fallen to Charles and Sam. They had three survivors, who had after their almost-year of proving their control, gone on to strengthen other packs in the US.

By October, Mercy had been bonded to almost the entirety of the pack, with one or two Wildlings remaining but, once again, he had observed that their bonds were manifesting of their own accord. He had thought on it, often, wondering if it was because she had once – in some sense – been part of the pack before, albeit in name only. Was there power in that perception? Had she, and the others, believed she was part of the pack to the degree that a ceremony was unnecessary? 

It required more thought. If it could happen with a Walker, what was to say it couldn’t happen with a fae? He thought of Sam’s as-of-yet unborn child, of being able to welcoming it into his family in a way that the humans couldn’t be. He asked the question to himself – would he want that? How would it change them?

For the most part, given that it had been months in the making, the pack accepted Mercy as the Marrok’s mate and those that didn’t – for reasons both viable, to their minds, and indeed irrational – Bran overpowered their concerns without thought. If he’d thought that Mercy would be troubled by the dissenters, he would be wrong.

“This is a cake walk, compared to when I joined Adam’s pack,” she said lightly, surprising him.

They were reviewing the final list of petitions in the living room, a stack of six folders, neatly organised with pages of background information within each one. The fire was lit and they had agreed on suitable background music that didn’t make Bran’s teeth stand on edge and didn’t make Mercy suicidal. She had a mug of spiced hot chocolate; he had tea. They had started out at opposite ends of the couch but now sat side by side in a corner, backs propped up on cushions, so they could swap papers more easily.

He supposed people would call this _cuddling_. It was not something he had done with a woman outside of a bedroom. 

“A cake walk,” he repeated, picturing his band of tortured souls.

She held up a finger. “For one, no one in this pack thinks they would make you a better mate. Adam’s pack had at least two, even three, females who would happily have killed me for it. Part of this is because there are fewer females here. Part of this is probably because they think you’re too much work.”

She flicked him a cheeky grin and held up a second finger. “Two, most of the pack knows me and knows I can fight my own battles, despite being a tenth the power of a werewolf and even if that wasn’t the case, you are strong enough for the both of us that having a ‘powerful’ mate is irrelevant to them. And three, the median age of the pack is nearly triple that of the Columbia Basin pack. The wolves here have seen stuff some of Adam’s wolves couldn’t have dreamed of. A coyote mate? Most of them just shrugged and moved on.”

He kissed her, because he needed to. “I’m glad.” Indeed, Bran was glad that this process had been reasonably seamless. It would have been a shame to have to kill some of his wolves to ensure Mercy’s security but he would have done it.

*

He knew something was wrong because Mercy told him, through the bond. Worry trickled through it, then a spike of fear, and a jiggling _I need you_ sensation and he held a finger up to halt the conversation around him. “One moment,” he said, turning to Charles. “Do you know where Mercy went?” He knew, precisely, that she wasn’t in the house, but that awareness hadn’t bothered him because she still felt close and because she had felt normal.

“She left her phone at the garage and went to get it,” Kara said, in passing. She was carrying plates of food to the trestle tables that had been set up.

Ben, similarly weighed down, stopped. “Is something wrong?”

Everyone took a moment to review the bonds, seeking out Mercy. Worry flickered across everyone’s faces.

“I’m going to drive down to the garage. Ben, why don’t you come with me. Charles, you stay here, with our guests.” Surrounding them in various states of nerves and stress, were the chosen successful petitions for the Change, some of whom would not survive the night. “I am taking my cell phone,” Bran said, already moving, Ben at his side. 

He drove them the short distance to the garage, ascertaining quickly that whilst her car was there, the garage itself was still locked. Ben rang her phone and they heard it vibrating inside. Bran paced around her car, scenting her and the many others who parked in this area on a daily basis. All were recognisable and he could put names to them. Except one.

“Human,” Ben said. His eyes were scanning the forest around them. Gus’s garage sat a little way from the main strip of shops, to allow for a bigger parking lot, on the edge of where manmade land became nature again. “Male. Gun.”

Bran concurred. He turned to face the direction he smelt Mercy and this stranger had gone. _I’m coming,_ he projected towards her.

Ben whined. “Should I change?”

He shook his head. “I will. Message Charles, tell him what we know. Ask him to follow me.” Hopefully Charles would get there in time to stop Bran doing anything he would regret. He undressed swiftly and pulled on the pack bonds to hasten his change. He shot off into the firs, following Mercy’s trail.

*

It had probably been no more than forty minutes since Mercy had left, Bran estimated. Running on four legs, he caught up to them quickly, but circled around so he could get as close as possible, but with the man’s back to him.

The man – he was in his forties, perhaps, very thin, with greying light blonde hair – had Mercy seated on a fallen log, his gun trained on her as he spoke. There was no sense of immediate violence, despite the weapon and Mercy’s fear was a simmering, watchful thing. Bran nudged her through the bond, announcing his arrival, and settled down to assess the situation as calmly as he could.

Calmly, he told himself, aware that the monster inside of him was braced to kill. Bran agreed – the man would die today - but first he needed to understand what had precipitated this action.

It became clear, from the spittle-fuelled speech he was giving to Mercy, his silent and transfixed audience, that the man was a failed petitioner for the Change. Bran breathed deeply a few times, clarifying the scents. Sickness, he thought. Some kind of terminal illness. Not uncommon in those who asked for the Change.

Bran didn’t recognise his face, which meant he had not even made it through the early screening process that whittled the numbers down to the four dozen or so that Bran saw or interviewed. He would have been rejected many weeks ago, in that case.

That he was angry was not surprising. He had witnessed personally the reaction of many who had been rejected – anger was common, so was sorrow, sometimes relief.

What was unusual was that this man how found where the Marrok lived. That information was not commonly shared with humans.

He wondered, too, at the luck of finding the Marrok’s mate, alone, unarmed on the night of the Change ceremony.

It suggested a series of timely coincidences that would need to be evaluated. After. 

The man’s rant became more flamboyant, more desperate, his words becoming less coherent, almost slurred.

Nothing to lose, Bran realised, inching forward a little more. Dangerous.

In the small clearing, Mercy was remaining quiet. She sat with her hands loosely clasped on her lap, body relaxed and calm, though he could feel her rising fear through the bond as she recognised the danger unfolding in front of her. She wore a fixed expression he recognised as the one she had worn when he had been angry with her in the past – sorrowful but innocent. She had been able to summon that expression at will, coupling it neatly with downcast eyes. _What? Me? No, sir,_ it said. It had been very challenging to remain angry with her when she presented him with it, though he had certainly persevered.

This man, Bran realised, wouldn’t care about her innocence. He came here to punish. He would kill her. Bran could taste it in the air.

He waited for the right opportunity, tensed. When he at last felt Charles encroaching, he didn’t deliberate any longer. When he took his chance, he did so confidently, and sprung from behind and ripped out the enemy’s throat in one smooth move. He felt the monster start to make his triumphant climb up through Bran’s psyche as he savaged the man’s body, arterial blood spurting. He tore and ripped until the body stopped twitching. 

“That’s enough,” his Mercy called behind him.

Bran’s lips curled and growled at her and took a chunk out of the man’s thigh, his lust for blood not yet quenched. _It was unacceptable_ , he told her. He chewed resentfully, annoyed that she was bringing humanity into a situation when it was his right to punish.

Charles trotted into the clearing and assessed the scene in his own wolf form. Bran rumbled with dissatisfaction at his son, as well. _Look what could have happened_ , he said, tossing his head to the weapon that was cast to one side.

Charles came to sniff the body and then sat back as he completed his change. “Are you all right?” he asked Mercy, which was a question Bran was interested in so he sat back on his haunches and cocked his head at his mate.

Mercy nodded. She stood and brushed off her jeans. “Apart from the gun, he didn’t seem so threatening.”

“Alec Frampster,” Charles said, pulling the name from his extensive memory. “We rejected him for a violent profile. He had a series of arrests in his twenties and thirties – assault, battery. Nothing that put him behind bars but the precedent was unsettling and didn’t bode well for his mental state as a werewolf.”

Bran nudged Mercy’s leg, so she scratched his head. He leaned against her, sighing.

 _Who put him forward?_ Bran asked his son. All humans had to be nominated by a werewolf. It was usually a family member, however distant. It was a piece of a puzzle he wanted to dwell on.

Charles hesitated before answering and then sighed, anticipating Bran’s response. “He was one of the new submissions.”

Bran snorted. Of course. He nudged Mercy. _Home_ , he told her.

“Ben’s gone to get the sheriff,” Charles said. “I’ll stay with the body – you go back to the house. We should postpone the petitions.”

Bran disagreed.

“Da, really, you’re in no condition.”

Bran disagreed _more firmly_.

“Fine,” Charles said. “But at least wait for me before you begin.”

*

Four of six survived the Change, which was respectful. Four healthy wolves – three male, one female - emerged from weakened bodies to the mixed happiness and shock from their designated companions. The sight of it was a joy Bran hoped he would never tire of but mirrored with the grief of the two who had lost their lives at his teeth and claws.

It was nearly dawn when he climbed into bed, still high on adrenaline. Mercy woke with a start, a bare flicker of alarm replaced with anticipation as he pulled the blankets from her and tugged off her pyjamas – a ludicrous purple pair that her mother had given her last Christmas. She smiled, a secret, womanly smile and stretched her arms over her head. “Hello,” she said and it was almost a purr.

Bran looked his fill, stroking his hands down her thighs and caressing her with his thumbs. Her nipples pebbled without him touching them. “Mine,” he said, confidently.

“Yours,” she agreed, easily, and then he covered her body with his own and celebrated.

*

He made love to her again in the morning, kissing her hands, her face, every spot he could touch when he was tightly inside of her. He watched her face closely as she came – to his delight, sometimes she looked very _cross_ , as if her climax wasn’t doing what it was told - and then kissed her as he finished, rolled her on top of him so they could continue kissing long afterwards.

She sat up on him eventually and yawned hugely, her jaw cracking. “Charles is already here.”

He nodded, admiring the view and running his fingers over the tattoo of the coyote paw. He had no intention of stopping but… “We should shower.”

They padded naked through to the bigger bathroom and he ‘helped’ wash her hair before hoisting her up against the tile and having her again. It was always like this around full moon. Magic in his blood driving him to behave in the most fundamental of ways. She reciprocated and dug her heels into his back and urged him on. “Harder,” she said, kissing him savagely. He bared his teeth, nipping at her lips and obeyed, pistoning into her in a way that made her let loose sharp, high pitched noises that rose in volume until she was screaming and coming around him. He held himself still as he came, pressing his face to her collarbone.

With her limp against him, he turned off the shower with one hand. They both realised simultaneously that this bathroom had no towels. He swore quietly.

She snorted, draping her arms over his shoulders. “Whoops. Also the door is open into the hall so they definitely heard that,” she said, sounding utterly unconcerned. 

Bran carried her back, wet and dripping, into their bedroom. “I definitely prefer that bathroom,” he said, as she slid down his body and accepted the towel he handed her from the bathroom towel rail.

“Mmm,” she said, still not convinced.

“We could knock down the walls between the two rooms.”

She thought about it. “And have a preposterously large bedroom?”

He shrugged. “We could put bookcases in here.”

He could see she liked that idea and he began to think that Anna had perhaps had the right of it. He dried and dressed more quickly than she did, as she had to deal with her hair. “I’ll go down,” he said, kissing her twice in succession.

“Don’t start without me,” Mercy asked.

*

Charles and Asil were waiting for him. Asil had helped himself to coffee, which suggested he, too, had been long enough to hear them in the shower. Mercy would not be pleased. The wolf, however, was delighted that two dominants had heard him making love to his mate. _Mine_ , he said.

“Good morning,” he said brusquely, beckoning them to follow him into his study. His stomach rumbled and he wished he’d thought to stall things further by getting breakfast. “We’re waiting for Mercy.”

“Of course,” Asil said, lowering himself into the twin of the armchair he had in the bedroom. He wiggled, masterfully balancing his coffee. “This is comfortable.”

Bran smiled. “It is, isn’t it,” he said, with marked enthusiasm.

Mercy arrived a few minutes later, interrupting some entertaining talk where Asil was trying to discover if Bran had a furniture fetish. He had twice had to dig his fingernails into his thighs to stop himself from laughing. Charles looked at them both as if they were losing their minds.

Mercy handed him one of the two plates of scrambled eggs and ham she was carrying. His pile of eggs was twice the size of hers and liberally spiced with black pepper and hot sauce. He turned the plate in his hands, disproportionately touched at this thoughtfulness. “Thank you,” he said, quietly, picking up the fork she passed him and starting to eat. She hopped up onto the side of his desk and balanced her plate on her knee.

“So, tell us about the man,” Mercy asked. Bran wondered if she knew she had pulled on her bond with him to imbue her voice with authority or if it had been instinctual. Either way, it was a good sign.

Nodding, Charles placed the file he was holding on Bran’s desk. “Alec Frampster. Was one of the first new applications we reviewed.”

Mercy heard the nuance in Charles phrasing. “What does ‘new’ mean?”

“After we went public, some of the packs that were in the public eye started to receive requests from humans to be Changed, instead of going via the usual ways – by knowing a werewolf and being sponsored, privately. In some instances, the sheer numbers of requests meant that, even if they were viable, the packs couldn’t manage them. Few of our Alphas have the ability to successfully bring on the Change.”

“It was a surprising side affect of going public,” Bran admitted. He had expected there to be interest, of course. The lure of invulnerability and strength was always going to be desirable – but for some the cost would be too high.

Charles continued. “To manage this, we introduced a system online which allowed submissions and then all packs – public or not – could assess them. We could spread the responsibility.”

Mercy ate a mouthful of eggs. “Huh. It sounds great.”

Bran’s son looked pleased. It had been his brainchild. Bran had not been so supportive; he didn’t like change. “It’s working reasonably well. The trial was last year. This year was the first time we, personally, used it. Two of the successful candidates that were changed last night were found using this system.”

“But there have been…teething problems,” Asil chipped in, enjoying being the bearer of bad news.

“Yes. The quality of applications is noticeably lower.”

Asil saluted the room with his empty coffee cup. “And often more demented. As demonstrated by Mr Frampster.”

Mercy swallowed the last of her eggs and exchanged her plate for the file. She skimmed the details. “There’s not much here.” She passed it to Bran, who sat forward in his chair to read it, running his hands through his hair.

“He didn’t make it past the first round. Just his initial background check revealed too many red flags.” Charles looked to Bran, dark eyes troubled by his lack of available information. “Which means we don’t immediately have an answer as to how he knew where we were.”

Bran’s assessment of the details they did have said that Frampster was a nobody. He didn’t have the patterns of an undercover asset, his medical file looked thorough – damning – but thorough. Even his history of violence spoke to a bad temper and an unpleasant personality – not a calculated killer. 

“When did he apply and when did he know he was rejected?” Mercy asked.

“January. The rejection was immediate.” Charles glanced at Bran. “That is probably something that should be looked at. I thought it would be kinder not to give them hope.”

“It is,” Bran said, closing the file and pushing it away. “Not all will react with homicidal tendencies.”

“My gut feel is that it was opportunistic, Da. He’s a local – Butte’s only a couple of hours away. And he’s had months to become detective. Mercy herself was a public figure closely tied to a werewolf, who very publically disappeared over a year ago. He could have been following her closely, watching the town, waiting for the opportunity.”

Oh, Bran _loved_ that.

“Thanks, Charles,” Mercy said drily, reaching to put her hand on the back of Bran’s neck and squeezing. He glared at her; she wasn’t taking this seriously. Her lips parted in outrage as that thought trickled through. “I am taking this seriously! I just don’t want you to think this is an opportunity to saddle me with a werewolf bodyguard.”

“That is a very sensible suggestion. Perhaps two though,” he added, as if this hadn’t been something he had considered seriously before.

“I concur,” Asil put in, perversely siding with Bran for a change and giving his Alpha a conspiratorial look.

Mercy threw up her hands. “Oh, _whatever_.”

Bran rubbed his hands together, pleased with his work. “I think we need to confirm some of these assumptions,” he said, wistfully wishing he could kill Frampster all over again. 

Asil frowned at Bran. “We should go and look at his residence, speak to his neighbours. Review his search history.”

Charles’s eyebrows raised. “Search history,” he repeated.

Asil lifted and dropped a shoulder, casually. “I can still learn things.”

Bran reflected that having the young about old werewolves was sometimes a helpful education tool that went both ways.

“It shouldn’t take long. Anna and I will go,” Charles volunteered.

“No,” Bran said, making an inspired decision that tied a few threads together for him. “Mercy and I will go.”


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing Bran did was ensure the generic hotel room - with its antibacterial, cloying chemical scent - smelt more like them. Mercy had been surprised when he’d suggested they stay the night when they could make the trip in a day but had agreed. Perhaps she, too, wanted a change of scenery. 

“Admit it, you just wanted to have sex somewhere new,” Mercy said, chest rising and falling as they lay naked on the bed, perspiration cooling on her chest. 

Bran leaned over to kiss her and got up. “Indubitably.”

They showered and Mercy looked up the apartment building where Frampster had been renting. She wanted to drive, so Bran looked out of the window. It had been a few decades since he’d been to Butte. There had always been fae here; it had been best to tread gently. “Did you come here for the mine tour?” he asked, recalling it had been an activity the children in and around the pack had done for years.

“Yes, a couple of times. The bit underground is cool.” She smiled and glanced over at him. “Is the town accurate?”

He smiled. “More or less.” The museum had a re-creation of an 1890s mining town which, to his mind, wasn’t so long ago but for many of the pack children had been almost inconceivably old. “Feels small now,” he said, thinking about it. Like many old wolves, he tended not to think of the past too much. It didn’t do to dwell. “Compared to this. Compared to everywhere.”

She asked a few more thoughtful questions about life in the 1800s and then returned to her original topic. Was there anywhere in the world that didn’t feel ‘changed’ to him? He told her about the trip to England he’d taken a few years ago. “Some landscapes are the same, just as they are here. But there were some villages, there. If you take away the cars. The satellite dishes.” He snorted. “The people.” The smells. The sounds.

“Did you go to Wales?”

He shook his head. “Best not,” he said.

The apartment building wasn’t secured, no video cameras, just a dummy at the entrance, and they walked up the two floors unobserved to where Frampster’s apartment was. The building was quiet – but it was the middle of the working day – and smelt clean. He was able to pick up Frampster’s scent, a few days old. Interestingly, someone in the building was a vampire. He filed that thought away.

“Bran,” Mercy said, stopping before they reached Frampster’s door.

He looked at her. “What is it?” he asked, expecting her to comment on the vampire scent.

She pursed her lips and looked down. He stared at his gloved hand, where his finger had curled itself into her belt loop, keeping her in range. “Huh,” he said.

“You can let go of me,” she pointed out. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I do know that.” Sheepish, he detached himself. “I shall try not to do that again.”

Mercy leaned casually against the wall whilst he opened the door, by the expedient process of breaking it, carefully enough that it could be easily mended afterwards. The crunch was satisfying. He eased it open and Mercy waited whilst he ascertained that the apartment was empty. He nodded the all clear and she followed him inside.

It was a small, one bed apartment. He walked through each room, performing a general check to confirm that the only person who had been in the apartment was Frampster, as well as some rodents, one definitely now deceased, before starting to do a more thorough search of the bedroom. Mercy went straight for his laptop on the couch in the small, open plan living area. “No password,” she said.

Bran briskly rifled through the chest of drawers by the bed. There was no memorabilia – no photo frames, keepsakes. He had a few paperback books, the standard crime fare of the middle aged human male, the only thing that saved the apartment from neutral monotony.

With nothing of interest in the drawers, or behind them, he lifted the mattress, looked under the bed, pulled the wardrobe from the wall and looked behind the framed prints on the wall that had probably come with the apartment. The bathroom cabinet held a series of small pill bottles – prescription and behind the counter. Charles’s background check had confirmed that any assets Frampster had once had had been sold to pay for extensive medical bills.

Mercy appeared in the doorway, holding the laptop with the screen facing him. He glanced at the screen. Frampster had been building a comprehensive cross-referenced table of ‘wild dog’ sightings in Oregon and Washington State, complete with sources and frequency. Some sources, he noted, were photographs published on Social Media sites and transcriptions of police radio calls.

He sighed when she clicked to show him a map and the frequency of the dots around Aspen Creek. “Can you make a copy?”

Charles had people monitoring such activity; they would need to see what they were up against now.

She pulled a USB stick from her jeans pocket and walked back into the living room. Bran finished in the bathroom and moved on to the kitchenette. Frampster ate a lot of cheap junk food and didn’t do much cooking. Most of the pots and pans had a layer of dust and he found the dead rodent. He opened the door at the end of the kitchen, expecting to find a utility space with cleaning appliances, which he did, but he also found a wall of newspaper cuttings. Every wolf who had gone public in the US was featured. Adam and his wolves. David Christianson. A few others. Mercy. Lots of pictures of Mercy.

Bran took out his phone and photographed it. 

“I’m done,” Mercy told him, coming to peer at the wall with him. “Should we remove it?”

He nodded – when the humans eventually came to clear his apartment, he didn’t want any obvious obsessions to link Frampster to the werewolves - and they set about pulling the pictures off and bundling the evidence into a plastic bag. He called Charles to update him and asked for a non-descript repairman to come and fix the front door.

They grabbed a late lunch at a diner, talked a little about general things whilst Bran did a good job of containing his anger. The wall of her face and faces of his wolves had distressed him.

“Do you want to have a look around? Go for a walk, maybe?” Mercy asked, after, with an expression that told her she already knew the answer to that.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said.

In their hotel room, Mercy started removing her clothes, which was a relief because he liked her blue sweater and didn’t want to tear it. He was a little rougher with his foreplay than he would have liked. He bit her, several times, and she retaliated in kind, which was helpful. But, when he pushed inside her, the headboard started banging against the wall frantically and she laughed, suddenly, and the storm inside him broke.

He apologised, afterwards, kissing the marks on her shoulder, her breast, her thigh. “This was bad of me,” he said.

“Werewolves. So _bitey_ ,” she muttered in mock-anger, pulling him up from where he was licking her thigh. Then she saw his face; the thought of another man biting her didn’t sit well with him. “I’m sorry. That was poorly timed.”

“I know you have been with other men.” Werewolves, he thought. _Adam_. Before him, there had been one in college, a one-night stand that she didn’t talk about. He knew about that one, too.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “ _Not_ that many. Not that it matters.”

He kissed her. “I know.” There had also been a college boyfriend, this time human. Without shame, he had asked Charles to investigate him. The lengths to which he had fooled himself regarding Mercy sometimes truly astonished him.

They kissed lazily a little more, then they had a nap, his arm around her waist and his body curled around her. When he woke, he inspected the bite on her thigh with dedicated thoroughness which led to the headboard banging some more, which led to more laughter. He relaxed, a little. Safe, he said to himself. He patted her behind. _Safe_.

“I booked us a table at a nice Italian place for dinner,” he told her, later, as it was getting dark. They hadn’t dressed and he still lay sprawled at her side, touching her hair. They had been talking inconsequentially for a long time. The curtains were still open but they were high enough that he didn’t feel they were being overlooked and they hadn’t turned on any lights.

She was pleased. Then suspicious. “How nice?”

“Jeans are fine,” he said, knowing that was all she had brought with her. He rested his palm over her tattoo.

“We’re going _out_ for dinner.” She raised her eyebrows. “Date night.”

“Date night,” he confirmed, feeling extremely modern. He kissed her shoulder. “I’m sorry I don’t take you out more.”

Mercy blinked at him; it hadn’t occurred to her. “I don’t need it.”

“It’s not a question of need. It’s –“ He struggled to find the right word and blew a breath out when he couldn’t. “Required,” he said, finally. “Not in a perfunctory way.”

She tugged his ear. “You’re cute.”

He raised his eyebrows. He was not, nor had he ever been, cute.

Bran ran his hand down her body, brushed his thumb over the wet curls between her thighs. He wanted her again. “Do you think the shower is too small for both of us?”

*

Dinner was romantic, which is what he had wished for when he imagined combining their brief investigation with a night away from Aspen Creek.

To his delight, he found himself being flirted with and he flirted back, using the charm which he frequently used to manage people but rarely used with intent to seduce. She tangled her feet with his and they shared bites of their food. The staff were charmed by them. He overheard them being referred to as the ‘cute kids at the corner table’ and Mercy spluttered into her wine. 

He didn’t often think about age. She was so young to him but she did, he realised, also _look_ young. She must have turned thirty and life had not been easy on her but, like the giggling waiters thought, she could have passed for a college-age young woman. Adam had told him that Coyote thought she would be long-lived, with a passing relief, as if he had resigned himself to her dying before him if the world didn’t get them first.

He took her hand and kissed the knuckles, a gesture that sent the waiters into overdrive.

“I didn’t like you could be like this,” she said, twining their fingers together.

“Neither did I.”


	10. Chapter 10

Sam drove Ariana home for the birth of the child and the mood in Aspen Creek became unbearable, putting all the old wolves on edge. It was as if the town was braced for sorrow, Bran thought, wishing not for the first time that this ‘miracle’ hadn’t happened to Sam. Sam, of course, wasn’t helping matters – vacillating between terror, sorrow and guilt and passing this directly to his wife who could be heard yelling at him.

It didn’t help that Ariana’s nerves were also all over the place, surrounded, as she was now, by anxious werewolves. The magic that emanated from their home put both Mercy’s and Bran’s nerves on edge. No one was allowed to _help_ but clearly they needed it.

“What possessed him,” Bran found himself muttering at all hours, roaming the house, unable to sleep.

Because he couldn’t, as Charles put it, ‘keep siccing Anna on her’, Bran asked Mercy if he could also visit with Ariana, in the hopes that another Other woman would be good company and useful. By all accounts, Ariana was huge and uncomfortable.

Mercy was happy to, of course, and visited with Ariana as much as she could, but she did admit it was a very effective form of birth control, if that had been what Bran was intending.

“It was not!” Bran barked, alarmed.

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” she joked, kissing his temple in passing.

Bran took Anna to visit with the Wildlings, to check that the mood of the town wasn’t bleeding elsewhere. He would normally have found her presence soothing but she was clearly troubled, as well, and they had to pull over to discuss what was on her mind. He had found talking with Anna was not conducive to safe driving, despite knowing the mountains like the back of his hand.

“Babies,” she said, sadly.

He opened and closed his mouth. “Yes.” The latest attempt to adopt had fallen through and, whilst he knew Anna always tried not to get her hopes up, she always did and was heartbroken as a result.

“Mercy says you haven’t really talked about it.”

Bran stared out at the fir trees, lightly dusted with snow. “It’s not something I imagined for myself again,” he said. He thought of Blue-Jay woman, pregnant, weakening, and then gone. Charles was a gift but one that had come with a dangerous sadness. _It would be different_ , he told himself, shaking off the fear. 

Bran reached out to give Anna comfort. She was hurting and there was nothing he could do about it. Oh, they were trying. One of the biggest drains on the finances of his pack now was the team of independent scientists who were studying how to beget werewolf children – both, specifically, for a werewolf mother to beget children, as well as improving the life expectancy of the babies sired by werewolf fathers.

And it was certainly a drain on the finances, one that he was not sure was essential and one that he and Charles evaluated every quarter, with some input from Sam. It was an immeasurably slow process because the science just wasn’t there yet.

Of course, until Anna, Bran hadn’t had a personal emotional connection to the problem. He had his children. He had been content. Every werewolf Changed he sometimes felt was another of his children.

But if they discovered a solution, Bran thought, the future expanding in front of him like a dreamscape. Their Anna – and women like Anna - could have the child their bodies desired. More wolves could be Born, not Changed. Wolves like Charles, who could change more quickly, who were more attuned to their beast, more – somehow - natural.

The humans wouldn’t like that, though. The low fertility of the werewolf population was something that they considered a benefit.

“Bran, you’re growling,” Anna said, her lilting voice reaching out to him.

He came back to the moment. “Thank you,” he said, starting the engine.

*

Bran became a grandfather again with a truly astonishing lack of fuss. Ariana went into labour and four hours later there was a baby. A healthy baby girl.

Mercy showed him pictures, as none of the werewolves had been allowed within fifty yards of the house the new parents occupied, though a small crowd had formed, anxiously, during the hours Ariana had strained to bring the child into the world. It had started snowing and umbrellas had been fetched so they could keep watch.

The baby looked, well, like a baby. A red, wrinkled potato. He didn’t say that, of course.

“Could you tell?” he asked her, holding the phone and flicking through the pictures. He paused at the slightly blurry photo that had captured Sam’s besotted face, emailed it to himself, and then handed Mercy’s phone to the next person so they could look. The gathered crowd had turned celebratory. Tag was passing around cans of his IPA, someone else had champagne. A few were openly crying.

Mercy didn’t need more explanation. “In my experience,” and he was surprised she had experience, “newborn babies all smell like their mother’s body fluids for a day or two. We’ll have to wait.”

Mercy herself smelt like blood and exhaustion. He unzipped his coat, opened his arms and she stepped into him. “I’m so relieved,” she said into his neck as he wrapped the edges of his coat around her.

He leaned against her, saying more with the weight of his body that he could out loud. He had seen many babies die in childbirth. Many mother’s too, of course. 

Anna trotted down the path, happy tears drying on her face. “Ariana says you can come in, Bran, and say hello to your granddaughter.”

Bran’s hold tightened on Mercy. “There’s no need,” he said, loath to interrupt a fae when she was weakest. He hadn’t been that suicidal for a long time. “I can wait a couple of days.”

“No, she says she wants you to.”

Anna managed to convey Ariana’s non-negotiable tone. Someone passed Mercy her cell phone back and they followed Anna back up the path to a chorus of best wishes.

Ariana was propped up in a bed that had been set up in the small living room. The room smelt heavily of her elemental scents as well as the anxiety and sweat that tinged Sam’s. She was holding the baby, swaddled in the usual way, and Sam was standing to their side, upright and formal, though smiling, as if he couldn’t contain his joy.

“Hello, Da,” Sam said.

“Samuel. Ariana. Well done, my girl,” he said to the exhausted looking mother. Apparently birthing was a strain on the fae, too. Her short hair was sticking up with sweat, her tanned skin a little wan. He wondered if she had retained her glamour throughout. These were probably not normal questions a father-in-law would ask himself, Bran thought.

“You can come closer, Bran Cornick,” Ariana said.

Bran approached cautiously, careful to pull that which made him a werewolf deep inside. The baby, on closer inspection, resembled less of a potato and more of a very small, very old man. “She’s beautiful,” he said.

Ariana shook weakly with laughter. “Lie,” she said.

“She’s beautiful to me,” Sam said defensively, touching a gentle finger to the small hat the baby wore.

 _Like a wizened baby mole,_ Mercy thought at Bran, with crystal clear clarity. He looked over his shoulder to her, astonished to hear another voice in his head. He knew Charles and Anna could talk to each other but each mating bond differed. _How useful_ , he said to her. She raised her eyebrows, receiving him loud and clear.

Ariana drew his attention. “Do you want to hold her?”

Sam growled, then looked surprised at himself.

“Probably not,” Bran said, for the sake of Sam’s grip on reality. He predicted some difficult times ahead. He looked at his son, patiently. “I’ll kiss her, if that is all right with you, boy?”

“That’s all right with me.”

Bran slowly, very slowly, leaned down to kiss his granddaughter’s cheek. He breathed in once, deeply, but she didn’t stir, fast asleep from her exhausting arrival into the world. He paused to kiss Ariana’s forehead. “She’s beautiful,” he said again and this time it wasn’t a lie.

*

Bran dealt with the issue bluntly. “I need to go to the Tri-Cities.”

Mercy’s fork froze over a slice of tomato. “Oh?”

“Darryl has a situation with the vampires that he requested my help with. Would you like to come?”

She stabbed the tomato. “What kind of situation with _Stefan’s seethe?_ ” she asked, sharply.

He became annoyed, as he knew he would. He looked around the diner, pretending he wasn’t, then pretending that she couldn’t tell he was annoyed, and reflected that tackling this conversation in public had not been his very best plan.

“Maybe not,” she echoed his thoughts. She was becoming very good at that.

As if thwarting him in this small way cheered her, Mercy relaxed her defensive posture. “What’s going on with Stefan? I still speak to him,” she said, casually dropping this piece of information that he didn’t know into the conversation, “and he didn’t mention anything last time we talked. Which was, hmm, a couple of weeks ago. Before the baby.”

“It’s the little monstrous wizard vampire. Wulfe. Apparently he’s taken to stalking the female werewolves. Stefan claims it’s harmless but Darryl disagrees. The power dynamic is not what it was when Adam was there.” And Mercy, he added. If Mercy had still been there, Stefan would have listened, because Stefan loved Mercy, in whatever way a vampire could love a living, breathing being, and he wanted Mercy to be happy. 

Mercy nodded and cut up her chicken. “He stalked me, too. It was harmless,” she said, not perceiving, for a moment, what this would sound like coming from any other woman, let alone one speaking of an ancient, violent vampire. “Creepy, but harmless.”

Bran knew she thought this; they had talked about it before. He wasn’t going to touch that argument, not when he knew what was coming. “You and I have very different views of what is harmless,” was all he said. “Would you like to come with me?” He picked up his burger. He was not looking forward to this trip, encumbered as it would be with emotional burdens. He had been dreading speaking to her about it.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “But send my love to everyone.”

Now Bran froze. A slice of onion fell from his burger onto the plate. “You… don’t want to come?”

Mercy waved her fork at him. “I’ve surprised you. I never surprise you.”

He put the burger down. “You frequently surprise me.”

“Did you _want_ me to come?”

No, he thought. But he said, “If you wanted to, you could have. I thought you would.”

She wasn’t fooled. “Well, thank you for asking even though you really, really didn’t want me to.” She snagged one of his fries and dipped it into the sauce. And smiled at him as she popped it into her mouth.

Bran sat back, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “You really don’t want to go.”

She waved a hand. “If you were going anywhere else, I would, just to be with you. But I don’t want to go back there and feel sad. And if I felt sad, you’d be upset and then you would get angry. We’d fight because neither of us could do anything about it. Then no one would be happy because the Marrok would be snapping heads off. I wouldn’t even enjoy seeing everyone.” She shook her head. “I’ve thought about this before.”

“Clearly,” Bran said.

They went back to eating their meals. He asked, casually, “So, how often do you speak to Stefan?”

Mercy grinned around a forkful of salad.

*

It was discomforting being away from Mercy for so long. ‘Long’ he thought being a relative term. He had frequently stayed away from Aspen Creek for weeks on end and flown across the world in doing so. Now three days and a ten-hour drive each way felt like a lifetime. “Pathetic,” he told himself. He resolved not to call her, like a lovesick teenager, instead sending only short text messages, a medium he hated for its lack of transparency and he used to punish himself.

Through their mate bond, though, he felt her humour. She knew anyway.

The trip was uneventful. Bran did nothing more than stand at Darryl’s side whilst they negotiated with the Seethe. Stefan looked surprised to see him, which perhaps reflected more on his lack of understanding of the significance of the situation than anything else. Bran saw that he had interpreted things correctly – if Mercy had been there, this would have been a quick fix that wouldn’t have needed him. But then, perhaps that would be because Wulfe would have been stalking her and not anyone else.

He didn’t like that, either. 

Darryl was embarrassed by the situation – particularly at how easily it was resolved. Bran could sense the resolve in him to see things through on his own and he clapped the taller man on the shoulder. “You’re doing fine. I am happy to help,” he assured him.

Bran stayed with Warren and his husband because he knew Mercy held great affection for both of them and because staying with Darryl would have upset the dynamic. Having the Marrok in a reasonably newly created Alpha’s home was bad enough without him being mated to the previous Alpha’s wife. A confusing situation for everyone.

When he left, he invited Warren and Kyle for Christmas, as per his instructions. It was short notice, he apologised, but Mercy had wanted to extend the offer. Warren appeared shell-shocked but recovered quickly, thanking him. His husband, perhaps not recognising that the thought of staying with the Marrok over the festive season made Warren nervous, said they would be delighted. “It would be great to spend time with Mercy. We’ve missed her.”

“And she you,” Bran said, pleased because this would also solve their problem with Margi, who was coming for Christmas proper now and surely wouldn’t be able to torment them quite as much with other guests present.

He drove back in a good mood, arriving in time for dinner and a show.

“Ah,” he said, watching the grey wolf pup bounce around the living room, savaging the cushion in her jaws whilst the adults watched with various expressions of amazement and shock. Kara was on the table, clapping in delight. “I see Bethan has – is she purple?”

*

It became a regular ritual that Bran would look after Bethan on Sunday afternoons and give her parents a break. 

“Hello, darling,” Bran cooed to her in Welsh, determined than her first words would be in her grandfather’s first language. “What did you do today?”

Bethan, being a few months old, was not understandable but she was very charmingly chatty and cooed back at him, with noises and gestures and a lot of spit. She was now a very fetching looking baby, with downy blonde hair and hazel eyes. She smelt of wolf, definitely, but also of fae, her own mixed-elemental scent, much like her mother’s, and baby powder. It was too early to tell if she was dominant or not – perhaps she wouldn’t fit to that mould at all. Even he didn’t know in what manner a werewolf-fae child would evolve. At the moment, she seemed just like a normal, human baby.

Each day he spent with her, Bran found himself saying ludicrously sentimental things to her about how much he adored her and how clever she was and how she would grow to be big and strong and cunning. And when she gazed at him with wonder, he knew without question that the wolf inside him would defend her with his dying breath.

So when Zee drove all the way from the Reservation to tell him the Gray Lords were coming for Bethan, Bran told him if the fae wanted a war with the Marrok, they would get one if they harmed a hair on his granddaughter’s head. 

Zee grunted. “That’s what I told them.”

“Hello, Zee,” Mercy said quietly, behind Bran.

Heartbreak was in her voice, as she stared at the father figure who had taught her and cared for her in his own fae way. They had not spoken since Adam was taken, since Zee had helped Adam broker an agreement with the Gray Lords behind Mercy’s back.

“Mercy, I am glad to see you looking so well.”

Bran waited.

“It’s good to see you, too, Zee. Would you like to come in?” his mate said with formal politeness.

Zee shook his head. “I have a little gift for the child. A small token, nothing more. Nothing to mention.” Without coming closer, he put a wooden box on the path and backed away. “No harm to you or yours, Mercedes Thompson Cornick.”

He got back in his car and drove away, leaving them staring at the box.

Ariana sighed. “I guess I should go look at it.”

Sam grabbed her by the arm. “Are you sure?”

“Not particularly. But Zee is… good people,” she said, with a quirk of her lips that said the words didn’t mean what they sounded.

Bran glared at the box, carved with Runes that were older than he. “That looks familiar.”

“Aye,” Ariana said. “I think it… yes. A small token, indeed.” She shook her head and picked it up and laughed. 

Sam juggled Bethan, who was babbling, excited by all the emotions around her. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing. A small token,” Bran said, grunting at the enormity of the gift Zee had given them that they could never speak of. “Pass the child to me, Sam.”

Sam handed Bethan over as her mother approached her with the bracelet she now held in her hands. She clipped it around Bethan’s wrist and stood back. She stepped back and nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, that’ll do it.”

“Do what,” Sam asked, inspecting his daughter but seeing no difference.

“The fae can’t see her as fae any more,” Mercy said, smiling.


	11. Chapter 11

Six months after the baby was born, Bran, Sam and Anna flew to Europe for a summit with the key European werewolf packs. There had been much discussion on who would go. First, on whether Bran would go at all – given his relationship with Chastel.

“I need to look him in the eye and ensure he is still all there,” Bran told his sons, firmly, brokering no argument. Charles hadn’t had a premonition about this trip, so nothing really stopped him.

He took Anna for her Omega sensibleness and Bran would normally have brought Charles, too, but there was something about leaving Sam, also a new father, home to protect his own mate and child _and_ Bran’s mate that didn’t sit well with him. Besides, one of the discussions would be about the progress on werewolf fertility, and Sam was best placed to discuss that. 

“I could come, too,” Mercy said. She had been taking on more work with Gus and had initially been hesitant to leave the old man in the lurch.

Bran had considered it but shook his head. “I need you in charge here. And… you would be too distracting for me.” He didn’t trust the European wolves, certainly not around his Coyote mate. “I think I would be less worried if you were here, with Charles.”

He felt a flash of hurt from her – she didn’t want to be a weakness. She didn’t bring it up, just switched to a more teasing tone, “Will you miss me?”

He had been responding to emails when she had joined him in his study, bringing him a glass of lemonade and a plate of brownies. She often brought him little snacks during the day – it was one of her most charming features. She had seemed fine so he hadn’t given her his full attention. At the waver in her voice, he did now. “With every breath,” he said seriously, coming around the desk to gather her close. “And I expect you to pine for me.”

She laughed and it was relieved. “Oh, one hundred percent.”

*

Charles was stressed. “I feel like you made me a father in the space of twenty-four hours.”

“Terrifying isn’t it?” Sam growled, jet lagged and homesick as he flicked through his presentation on his laptop. They had retired to their suite for the lunch break, so that they could call home in privacy.

“I don’t know how you leave the house, I really don’t. Bethan is lightening-fast. All I seem to be doing is stopping her from killing herself in new and unusual ways. Just now, she was chewing through a lamp wire.”

Rather than find this off-putting, Sam nodded with a ‘been there, done that’ expression. 

Bran frowned at his phone, suddenly. “Are you on your own with Bethan?” He had received a photo from Mercy a few minutes before of a stack of blueberry pancakes on a familiar Formica table and had been surprised when he got through to Charles that he hadn’t been in the diner with her.

“Mercy and Ariana have gone out for breakfast and let me babysit. It’s been twenty-three minutes and it has not been peaceful.” Charles sighed at this trickery. “Tell me what’s been happening.”

Content that all was well at home, Bran updated Charles on news from the European packs. Because he knew it would please him, he regaled Charles with the story of how Anna had put Jean Chastel in his place when he started to target the new British Alpha. The Alpha who was, to everyone’s surprise except Bran’s, a female.

“Lizzie Voigt. Short for Elizabeth? I don’t know that name,” Charles said, musing. “Was she one of Maddens?”

“She was. She was married to his second.”

“Was?”

Bran grinned. “Still is. Only she is Alpha now and _he_ is her second.”

“No wonder Chastel was incensed. She has completely toppled the hierarchy. What’s she like?”

“Classically Viking. Tall. Broad shoulders. Blue eyes and red hair. No-nonsense and cool-headed. Anna has a photograph of her; she’ll send it to you.” Bran hummed. Anna was with her now – they were having lunch in the hotel restaurant, having immediately clicked. “If all our Alphas were like her, the world would be a better place.”

“Amen,” Sam said, who had been impressed. “Tell him what she said about the money.”

Charles grunted. “Yes, tell me about the money.”

*

Bran only nearly killed Chastel once, on the final day, which he counted as a success. It was _really_ very nearly, however, and in the car on the way to the airport, he was aware that Anna and Sam were on edge. Both of their eyes had turned wolf and Anna was radiating intense calm.

“I’m fine,” he said, eyes closed and infusing his body with Anna’s Omega-ness. He _was_ fine.

Mercy had shut down the mate bond between them that morning, which she had never done before. He had called her, frantically, the moment he felt the aching nothingness and she had picked up immediately and asked if she could call him back later, then hung up without waiting for a response.

Though he had called Mercy again after she hung up, she hadn’t answered, but she sent him a message whilst he was still ringing her. _I’m fine. Bethan is fine. We are all fine. Focus on this morning and then come home safely._

That morning’s session had been important – Sam’s presentation to the assembled packs was much anticipated by all the attendees, most of whom had invited their mates to join. Anna was therefore essential, to keep the assembled Alphas from killing each other. 

His calls to Charles and Ariana went unanswered and then followed the same pattern as Mercy. _Texts_. Texts that could lie. He could have screamed.

Instead, he took his anger out on Chastel, who cowered before him, bloodied and – for once - penitent. “ _You will obey_ ,” he roared down at him and around them, Alpha wolves and their mates fell to their knees at the overspill of power.

He would suffer for this reaction, later. This was tedious. Chastel would not forgive the humiliation of cowering before others he considered lesser. The British Alpha would be his target, Bran predicted, almost bored with it. He would have to do something about it, send Charles, later, to support her. He wished he could kill Chastel but he reflected that _before_ Chastel it had been worse in Europe. He didn’t want to think what would fill a power vacuum like that. Vampires. Fae. _Witches_.

He took a deep breath. Bran had to trust that whatever was wrong – and something was wrong – Mercy was handling it.

*

If the air steward thought it strange that the young woman travelling with the two men who could be brothers held both their hands throughout the flight, he said nothing of it to anyone, simply served them the meals that none of them ate and topped up their water glasses. 

Perhaps he assumed they were nervous fliers, Bran thought.

Anna drove them home from the airport, opening windows to let the stink of testosterone out, as she so delicately put it. When he endeavoured to keep up conversation with her on topics she might find interesting – music, predominantly, which was usually a safe space for them - she asked him not to. “It’s eerie,” she said. “Like talking to a possessed Bran.”

He would have to ask her what she meant by that. Later.

The silence helped. Bran was able to come up with a series of possibilities in the knowledge that they were getting closer so, when he walked through the door of his home, and Mercy was in his arms, he was able to smile without any semblance of surprise.

“Adam,” he said, to the man in his living room, “hello.”


	12. Chapter 12

After twenty minutes of frustrating threats pretending to be conversation, Bran took his mate up to their room, leaving the dangerous creature that was Adam Hauptman, Fae Wolf, in the capable hands of his sons, Asil, Ariana and Anna. 

As soon as the door was closed, Bran pinned Mercy to the bed. “Don’t do that again,” he growled at her.

She lay perfectly still and released her grip on the mate bond. The flood of relief from her did nothing to stymie his anger. “You’re not impressed with my control? I was impressed,” she said with total lack of fear, trying to nuzzle his face. 

He growled again, more threateningly, and this time he felt her tremble. She tilted her head, baring her neck. He nipped her, gently. “Never again. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie, I very definitely didn’t lie,” she told him, because it was true and he knew it. She sighed, shakily. “Bran, what would you have done if I’d told you he was here?”

He didn’t care about that. He kissed her quickly and then yanked off her jeans and underwear, furious with the need to claim her. Everything since she had shut down the bond had brought out his worst fears and he couldn’t believe she was here, with him, under him. 

“Touch yourself,” he ordered her, sitting back to pull off his jacket, his shirt and T-shirt. He unzipped his pants. Eyes dark, Mercy’s fingers dipped between her legs obediently but he could smell that it wasn’t necessary. His anger excited her which, in turn, excited him. He spread her legs, entering her hard, making her feel him and she arched up into him, gasping his name.

“I love you,” she said, her breath hitching with every thrust. She wound her arms around his neck, kissed his cheek, his lips, his face, though he was still rigid with anger. “I love _you_.”

*

He was more gentle the next time and afterwards stroked his hands over her body, over the old scars, reassured that there was nothing new to concern him. “You’re not hurt.”

“No. He went away when he realised you weren’t here.” In her voice, he heard the tears she had cried. She had been hurt in a different way. “We saw him for maybe ten minutes the first time and he barely moved from the front porch. Then he came back after you texted to say you had landed. We’d mostly been sitting in silence.”

Bran nodded. He leaned forward to breath her in, predominantly smelling Mercy and now him. The salt of tears. He couldn’t smell Adam; she hadn’t touched him. There had been no passionate embrace. “And you’re sure he hasn’t seen her?” He didn’t speak his granddaughter’s name.

“We’re sure. Ben had taken her for a walk.” Ben was a fierce babysitter and had a way with Bethan. They took long – for a toddler – rambling walks with, Bethan ‘talking’ and Ben answering thoughtfully and encouragingly. “Charles told him to stay away and then we moved her to Asil’s.”

He rested his forehead against hers. He felt the muscles in his cheeks twitch. “Tell me again.”

She kissed him. “I love you.”

He had thought about Adam returning, many times before. Wondered what form it would take, how he would react, picturing Mercy’s face as her great love came back to her. Yes, their passionate embrace. He had imagined her leaving him, explaining carelessly that she had never loved him, that he had been a necessary evil whilst Adam was in faerie, playing at being a fae, and now she would go back to her real life with her real mate. 

Bran’s imagination was really quite something.

He had imagined her cruel. Then, realistically, Bran had imagined her kind. Letting him down gently but telling him all the things he already thought – that she had been grafted to the bonds that had died when Leah had died, a mystical intervention that only her existing affection for him had allowed. That he should be kind and let her leave him. And he would, knowing that it would destroy him. He would let her go.

She pinched his behind. “Stop that, whatever you’re thinking,” she chided, smoothing her hands over his back and then digging her fingers into his tensed muscles. “And we need to get up. No one will think it takes this long to unpack.”

Bran grunted. As far as he was concerned, everyone could wait. He’d suffered through an interminable twenty-four hours; this was more important. “No one believed that was what we were going to do.”

“Yes, and that’s not embarrassing at all. You might as well have pulled out a Sharpie and written your name on my forehead.”

“That reminds me,” Bran said, rolling off her and going to the bag he had dropped by the door. He unzipped several pockets and brought back her gift. “This is for you.”

Her smile was suspicious when she recognised it was a jewellery box. “Uh oh,” she said, sitting up on her elbows. 

Bran cleared his throat and knelt on the mattress next to her. “I don’t think it’ll be a surprise. I hope you’ll like it.”

It was a ring, of course, platinum gold with diamonds. There was a chain in the box as well, so she could still wear it whilst she was working. She held it in the light, the diamonds twinkling. “It’s beautiful, thank you,” she said softly.

“You can wear it on whichever hand you like, if you wear it at all,” he said. He paused, annoyed. “I was going to—I am _not_ proposing to you whilst Adam is in the house.”

“So you are proposing… at some point?” she teased.

“Well. Yes.” Bran shook his head, surprising himself by being embarrassed. Marriage was functional, he reminded himself. He had the ring made in London to his specifications, then the British Alpha had brought it over for him. He hadn’t imagined, of course, giving it to her with her ex-husband in the house. But he wanted her to wear his ring _now_. He had once laughed at Charles for bedecking Anna in expensive jewellery and here he was doing the same thing for exactly the same reason.

“You are going about this in a very original way, Bran.” She slid the ring onto the ring finger of her left hand and cupped his cheek with the same hand. He kissed her, grateful. “I still love it.”

“ _We_ have gone about this in a very original way.”

He wanted to tell her about the summit, about the wolves who knew her, knew and respected Adam, and their avid curiosity. How they had prickled him with their sly questions. Some had thought he had taken her from Adam, that he had forced the mating bond on her, because she was Coyote and he was the powerful Marrok. A few knew about how Leah and Mercy had fought throughout her childhood – and thought Mercy had killed her, jealously, and mated with Bran after, that she had manipulated him.

He didn’t care what they thought – it was all preposterous, if not as preposterous as the truth - but he never wanted her to be shocked and hurt in the face of those rumours.

 _Later_ , he thought.

“So, tell me how I can help you,” Mercy said brightly, bouncing off the bed to get dressed. At his expression, she elaborated, calling from the dressing room. “At dinner. With Adam. How can I help you not start breaking things, without being cruel to him.”

Sensible and fair, that was his Mercy. “Sit next to me. Touch me if it feels natural.” She came back and tossed him some clothes. From her patient nodding, she would already have done that. She was putting on one of his shirts, now, as well, without being asked. “If he refers to any time in your relationship, you can be polite but change the subject.” He took a deep breath and visualised the table where they would sit, the things that gave him comfort. “Let me serve you. Drink out of my glass.”

“Fine. None of those sound too in your face or things I wouldn’t do anyway.”

“There is one more thing.”

“You say this in a way that suggests I won’t like it.”

“I need to close the mating bond.”

She stopped as she was pulling on her jeans. “What? The thing you _just_ yelled at me for?”

Bran felt as if he was treading carefully through hot coals. “Just whilst he’s here. You were right to do it. I didn’t like it, because I didn’t know what was happening, but I know I will react, poorly, to your emotions whilst he’s here and I don’t want that to colour my responses.” He rubbed his hands over his knees. “I don’t want to overreact.”

Mercy tilted her head to the side. “I broke you,” she said, eventually, shaking her head. “I’ve broken the Marrok.”

He found himself – _extraordinary_ – smiling. “You haven’t broken me. This is just a situation that requires some managing.”

“Broken,” she surmised, sadly. “Okay. I’ll miss you. But you can shut it down.”

Relieved, he did so. He took a moment to centre himself in the new quiet of just his own ragged emotions. _Broken_ , indeed.

“Do you think the British Alpha has to do the same things with her husband?”

Bran had made note to observe this, too. Lizzie’s husband, Andrew, had been present at the summit, of course, as he was her second.

“It’s there but not as obvious,” he said. The changing dynamics of werewolf women over the century had been of interest to him for some time. Not in his own pack – no, Leah made sure that position of the few werewolf wives he had was embedded in the traditional hierarchy – but he had noted it in other packs, the Columbia Basin pack being a good example. “They’re both dominant so I think it goes both ways. Perhaps she just doesn’t think someone is going to try and steal her mate.”

Mercy bent down to where he was sitting on the edge of the bed. She looked him in the eye defiantly. “Adam is not going to try to steal me. And I am not going to be taken,” she said, to his heart’s relief. “I love you. Now, please get dressed.”

*

Bran, Charles and Adam-the-Fae spent two hours in his study, trying to track Jessie down by employing every Alpha in the country. Bran would have rather not had Adam present for this, given Adam was no longer wolf, or was wolf but Other, but it had not been so long so that Adam had known all their secrets. 

At least, that was what he thought. Something about Adam’s mannerisms bothered him, however. At first, he put it down to Adam’s new heritage. What they saw as Adam was probably no longer he, it was a Glamour to cover his true appearance. The more he observed Adam, however, he wondered how much time had passed in faerie. It could have been decades. Centuries.

Adam moved like an old thing. An old, dominant thing, uncomfortable in the same space as two more dominant wolves.

Perhaps he was tired. He was a man looking for his daughter. His daughter who had been savaged by a wolf – possibly even one of Bran’s - and then disappeared.

Somewhere in the house, Mercy was on the phone to Tad. Adam had received news of his daughter’s attack via someone – a nameless and therefore no doubt powerful fae – who had received it from Zee, who had it from Tad. Tad and Jessie lived together in Portland and though, apparently, Adam had gone straight to Tad, they had all been aware that Tad may tell Mercy more than he had Jesse’s absent father. 

Though she was too far away to hear properly, what nuances he could catch sounded as if Mercy was becoming increasingly unhappy on the phone. If he had the mate bond, he would have been able to feel her and he was tempted… but held himself back.

“Excuse me one moment,” Bran said, making a decision. He found Mercy in the laundry room, with the door closed and the dryer running to muffle the sound from her call.

She was just finishing, worry evident on her face. She hung up and walked over to Bran, burying her face in his neck and holding him tightly.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Jesse had asked Darryl to Change her.”

Interesting. He had spoken to the Seattle Alpha, Angus, but had not managed to reach Darryl as of yet. He had left a message with the woman who answered the phone – human, irrelevant - and then left a voicemail on Darryl’s cell phone and on Warren’s. The lack of response was now beginning to feel suspicious. “I’ll send Sam to the Tri-Cities,” he said. 

She nodded and stepped back to lean against the washer, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tad didn’t tell Adam this. He was worried he would react poorly.”

“What did Darryl say to these requests?”

“He said no. Then he said he would think about it. Then he said _maybe_ after she turned twenty-five.”

“Mmm.” The problem with new Alphas, and with the very old ones, is that they never sought advice. Darryl would never before have Changed anyone, let alone the beloved daughter of his predecessor. And Bran knew that they had paused their involvement in the online submissions and sent any requests through the normal routes to Charles. He sighed.

“Have you tried anyone else in the pack? Apart from Darryl and Warren?” Bran shook his head; the Alpha or his second was the best source of information. Mercy’s face told him otherwise. “I’ll speak to Honey.”

“I would rather you spoke to Aurielle.” He had been going to ask her to do so as it was not, normally, good practice for another Alpha to contact an Alpha’s mate. He would be very angry if Darryl was calling Mercy.

Mercy shook her head, scrolling through her cell phone contacts. “She dislikes me.”

“You are the Marrok’s mate,” he said, putting a hand over hers. “It doesn’t matter if she likes you or not. She will obey you. Speak to Aurielle first.” It was not a suggestion.

Mercy’s eyebrows raised. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t _sir_ me when you mean the exact opposite,” he said, pulling her to him and forcing her to meet his eyes. Outside, he heard footsteps. Charles. Adam. He ignored them because Mercy learnt through action. “She is the wife of the Alpha. Show her the respect first so that she can give hers to you. _Then_ speak to Honey.”

She wriggled in protest. “Fine. I’ll follow the inefficient protocol.”

He tightened her to him, conscious of their audience, and kissed her thoroughly. She was stiff in his arms; she knew who was outside the door. He stroked her cheek, apologetically. Her mouth softened against his and after a moment he eased back. “Thank you.”

Her eyes were sparkling, with irritation amongst other things. “I love you, too,” she said, not quite able to keep her teeth from clenching.

He nearly laughed. 

*

The meal with Adam was understandably tense. Adam’s undefined dominancy was a problem none of the wolves were comfortable with and were not in a position to resolve in the usual ways. Was he fae first? Or wolf?

Sam had left as soon as Bran had instructed him, which meant Ariana was without her mate, her child was in hiding, and yet she was obliged, as their only fae advocate, to attend. To balance this, in addition to his immediate family, Bran had invited others to the hurriedly-pulled-together meal – Peggy and her wife, who was human and could safely sit on the other side of Ariana emanating no threat, and Ben, who had been part of Adam’s pack, and Asil, who was dangerous. 

Bran had relayed the details Mercy had given him and then had to politely request that Adam not hare off to the Tri-Cities with immediate affect but leave the werewolves to the Marrok, or in this instance, Samuel. This had not gone well. They had disagreed, at length, before Adam had acquiesced. It was clear Adam didn’t believe his daughter would ask to be Changed and he was deeply suspicious.

The phone call to Honey bore fruit. Darryl had been sheltering a lone wolf for nearly three weeks. Honey thought Darryl had been meaning to update Bran but they had also had a more pressing situation with the goblins that had to be dealt with at the same time. The wolf had been useful, Honey had said, and Darryl had been thinking of inviting him to stay with the pack, to bolster their numbers. He went by the name of Sylvester. However, he had left them two days before without warning.

Mercy, who was more familiar with the population of Bran’s wolves now, told Honey she didn’t think she or Bran knew of him which either meant he had been changed unknowingly, or that was not his name. She had left Honey with the task of sourcing a photograph. So far, nothing. As to why Darryl wasn’t answering – he, Aurielle and Warren were in conference with the Goblin King, Larry, finalising the details of a ceasefire.

In any case, all the more reason for Sam to go to the Tri-Counties. 

During dinner, Mercy kept her hand on Bran’s thigh. When the conversation at the table was relaxed, the hand loosened and drifted to his knee. When it tensed, she slid it up towards his groin which meant Bran twice amused himself by considering picking a fight to see what she would do.

After the first course, he demonstrated his modern husband routine and helped clear the table, which Mercy rolled her eyes at. “Transparent,” she hissed at him, when he cornered her in the kitchen to kiss her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She snorted and accepted the platter Peggy handed her. The pack were becoming used to the displays of affection between the Marrok and his mate - they even liked it, as a symbol of stability. When they returned to the table, Adam was talking to Ben, his intense eyes fixed on the younger werewolf’s face. Ben looked terrified and confused. Bran rested his hand on the wolf’s shoulder as he passed.

“You seem to have settled in, well, Mercy,” Adam said, addressing Bran’s mate as if she was a casual acquaintance. It was disturbing to see Adam Hauptman look at Mercy with anything other than affection. He wondered what it cost Adam to do so.

“Well, I grew up here.”

“Yes, of course,” Adam said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. Bran wanted to remind Mercy of his theory that Adam was much older than when last they had seen him. It was possible he _had_ forgotten. “The stories you told of it were an unhappy time, though.”

Perhaps not, Bran thought wryly.

Mercy’s hand started drifting up his thigh again. “I have some good memories.” She shared a conspiratorial smile with Charles, who immediately asked Anna if she had heard about the chocolate Easter bunny incident.

They all knew Anna had but she smiled and said, “Tell me.”

Adam listened to the story politely and laughed at the right points, as did everyone else. As one of the lighter stories of Mercy’s childhood – one where Bran didn’t come off too badly, like a cruel despot forcing his will on an innocent child – Bran was able to observe with all the graciousness of a good host. It was fascinating to watch Adam, and they were all certainly watching, even if it was out of the corner of their eyes. He had heard of a few fae-changed or fae-gifted – the fire-starting boy who had once been part of Adam’s pack being his most recent – but Adam, perhaps because he had already been powerful, was the first Other who had been changed that Bran had ever seen. And Adam had already been powerful.

Story over, Adam picked up the thread of his original conversation. “It must be curious from your new vaulted position, though, Mercy. Did you ever imagine that one day you would usurp Leah to be the Queen of the Wolves?”

Mercy looked a little shell-shocked, as if Adam had physically attacked her and she wasn’t expecting it. “I didn’t _usurp_ her.” Her mouth opened and closed with a snap, holding back the detail of how Leah had met her end at the hand of the fae woman Adam was now contractually bonded to.

“That would make me King of the Wolves, I suppose,” Bran considered, putting down his knife and fork and reaching for his glass of wine. “I wonder if I should re-brand.”

“Would that make me a princess?” Anna asked, artfully diffusing the conversation still further. She bumped her husband’s shoulder. Charles looked relaxed and charmed by his wife. “Because I married a prince?”

The conversation moved on. Mercy reached over to take Bran’s wine glass from his hand and sipped, meeting his eyes. He held her gaze for a moment longer than was normally acceptable and she dug her nails into his thigh. “Are there brownies for dessert?” he asked her, quietly, as if the rest of the table couldn’t hear them above their own conversation. 

“Of course.”

“And ice cream?” 

She smiled and leaned forwards, doing an impressive job of looking like she couldn’t resist him, as if her ex-husband wasn’t at the other end of the table. “Pecan.”

“My favourite,” he said, watching her mouth, tinted with the wine they were sharing. He knew, absolutely knew, that he shouldn’t have – he was older and much wiser than his recent behaviour indicated – but he leaned towards her invitation and touched his lips to hers. 

Adam threw the table across the room.

Had it not been for the quick reactions of Peggy, who pulled her wife to the ground, and Ben who yanked Ariana’s chair to the side, there would have been some casualties. In the case of Peggy’s wife, a fatality. 

Bran moved so Mercy was behind him, though she resisted. “Adam,” he said, in the face of the monster who had grown to three times the size of the man, and was still growing. If this was Adam’s true face, it was not a pretty one, like a werewolf out of a black-and-white television show, a creature carved out of flesh-toned clay. His skin looked raw and enflamed. A true monster. “I would consider your actions carefully.”

“Mine,” he said, spittle at his muzzle, teeth too big even for his malformed face. The eyes were chips of polished coal.

“She was once, yes,” Bran could admit, though his wolf strenuously objected. “You remember, of course, that _you_ gave her up for reasons you considered valid at the time.”

“ _NOT MY_ _CHOICE_ ,” the creature roared, heat from its maw burning with fury.

“It’s not Adam, it’s his wolf talking,” Mercy said, suddenly, pressed hard against Bran’s side because he held her there. He could feel her pulling, as if drawn to Adam’s pain, even in the body of the creature before them. 

Bran took a moment to centre himself. The drive to protect Mercy from Adam was almost all-consuming, pushing out all common sense. He needed to look beyond that to what was really happening. “Ariana, is it possible when the fae changed him, they didn’t take his wolf?”

Ariana was masterfully attempting to hold off her Beast. “Perhaps. It’s not an exact science – not with a werewolf. The man may have agreed and the wolf may have not.”

Very un-exact, was Bran’s perception. This changed things. Adam’s wolf spirit trapped in a fae body was a cruelty. An abomination.

“We are sorry for your loss, brother,” Charles told the wolf sombrely, bowing. “What was done to you was criminal.”

Adam’s wolf, in whatever form this now took, breathed scratchily, hot eyes fixed on Bran. “You took her.”

There was no point denying it. “It is my privilege to care for her. For you,” he added because, in a way, it was true. If Adam had not gone, he would not have Mercy to take care of and she of him. “I acknowledge that you loved and cared for her, before, as I love and care for her now and forever.”

The creature swayed on its feet. “I loved her.”

“I know,” Mercy whispered, her voice wet with tears. “I loved you too.”

Adam’s wolf whined. The muzzle on his face was shrinking. “I have to go now.”

They watched as with agonising slowness, Adam re-absorbed his wolf until it was just him, with his hands clenched to the side. His blue eyes spoke of an ocean of pain. “I will return when you have news of my daughter.”

He walked out of the house. Mercy was violently sick.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They really do have an improbable amount of sex. I put this down to werewolf stamina in a twenty-something year old body. *shrug*

Mercy insisted on helping clean up. Bran took a break from all of them in his study, going through the familiar motions of lighting the fire and sitting on the floor to watch the flames burn. He had once been able to manipulate fire, to a small degree. He no longer allowed himself to do that. Witchcraft was addictive.

It was gone midnight when he drew himself away from his thoughts. He checked his phone but there was nothing from Sam or anything from the Columbia Basin Pack.

He contemplated picking up on any of the small pieces of paperwork that awaiting him. Complaints, requests for transfers, chasing rumours from Europe, even the latest petitions to review. There was always something. But he recognised this for the avoidance tactic it was.

He dreaded going to their bedroom, dreaded being witness to Mercy’s sadness.

Bran padded quietly upstairs.

To his surprise, she wasn’t asleep – or even pretending to be. She was sitting up in bed, an iPad on her lap, the soft glow of the bedside tables lighting the room. She had showered and her hair was still damp around her shoulders, waiting to be plaited.

The room didn’t smell like it had done when she had been first pining for Adam. He hesitated in the doorway.

“Hey,” she said, putting the iPad to the side, which she had been frowning at, “any news?”

He remembered abruptly that she was worried about Jesse and that Jesse had been, for a long time, her step-daughter.

He shook his head. “I looked again for any Sylvesters.” He didn’t need to tell her that his memory for all his wolves was perfect and this was an unnecessary task.

“I didn’t think I’d seen any on the roster.” Mercy rubbed her face briskly and then stretched her arms high above her head, working the kinks from her body. “Honey called to say that Darryl hadn’t returned yet. But they hadn’t expected him to, not until the morning.”

Bran nodded. “The goblins deal in the dark,” he said, off-hand. He pointed to the bathroom. “I’m going to—“

She smiled and went back to her iPad. He brushed his teeth and didn’t meet his own eyes in the mirror. He thought, vaguely, of seducing her. It would _look_ like comfort. Hopefully she would sleep, after. The wolf liked this idea, like the idea of cementing his ownership. The man was not so sure.

Bran did not think he could talk about how much she loved Adam again. He didn’t want to touch the bond between them, not now. He couldn’t handle her regret.

He took a shower, to prolong the possibility that she might fall asleep and he could slip in beside her, curl up next to her and attempt to just live in this present, where she was beside him and always would be. 

Coward, he told himself as he scrubbed a towel over his head. He glanced at himself in the mirror and couldn’t help but compare himself unfavourably to her former mate. He was only a man, after all. A long-lived creature, for sure. But still a man.

Disgusted with himself, Bran threw the damp towel in the hamper and stalked to their bed, naked. He would seduce her. He would comfort her in the way he knew how. As he approached her, she smiled at him, appreciatively, and opened her arms for him. She surprised him though. Instead of meeting his face to kiss, she buried her face in his neck and breathed him in, stroked her arms down his back. “How are you? Are you okay?” she asked, squeezing.

“I’m fine.”

She scoffed. “Bran, I know this is awful for you. An unknown lone wolf in your territory? Potentially changing young women? It’s the sort of thing that drives you crazy.”

He leaned against her, half propped on the pillows and addressed his comment into her neck. “I am furious with Darryl,” he admitted.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “He made a poor decision.”

“Two,” Bran said, sitting up abruptly because she was absolutely right and his fury had been bubbling away at him since she had told him what Honey said. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it.

“ _Two_ very bad decisions. One, he didn’t tell me that the daughter of his Alpha had requested to be Changed. Repeatedly. Two, a lone wolf should immediately be reported to me. _Immediately_. Everyone knows that. For exactly this reason.” He crawled to sit next to her, slumped against the pillows.

“It’s not like him. He’s normally pretty cool-headed. Maybe the thing with the vampires threw him. You did say he was embarrassed.”

Bran made a disgusted noise. He hated that this was a possibility. “And, what, he didn’t want to _bother_ me?” He felt the growl in his voice. If the lone wolf had Changed Jesse Hauptman, he would have to be killed. And Bran would have to do it. And Darryl would also have to be punished. He was not relishing this prospect.

“Maybe.”

He had a mandatory monthly call with each Alpha under his aegis. Darryl’s was next week. “And,” he added, remembering, topping off his anger with yet another annoyance, “I have no idea what the problem is with the goblins. _I would like to know what the problem with the goblins is.”_

Mercy stroked his hair, trying to flatten the mess he had made. “I know, Bran. I’m sorry,” she said. She stroked her other hand down his chest and then over the muscles of his abdomen, considering. Her body language changed as her intent did, looking up at him through her lowered eyelashes as her fingers swirled. She leaned forward suddenly, swooping low to kiss his chest, then shifted her body to get a better angle and began mouth her way down him.

“What are you doing?” Bran said, with the stupid hopefulness of man.

“You can’t guess?” she said as she licked and kissed just above where he was increasingly becoming interested in the proceedings.

When she took him in her mouth, Bran abruptly forgot absolutely everything he was angry about. Except that she was still partially dressed. “Mercy, take this off,” he said, tugging at the shoulders of her T-shirt.

She paused and economically stripped her T-shirt off. When she pressed against his legs, this time, she was naked. He leaned back against the pillows, half wanting to close his eyes so he could just enjoy the sensation, half wanting to watch her with his cock in her mouth, a sight so erotic he almost couldn’t parse it. 

Her head bobbed up and down, the suction a wet, hot pressure so intense it was almost too much. He wanted to move, to thrust upwards. “I want to be inside you,” he said, grabbing a handful of her loose hair. She had done this before but normally only as foreplay, never with this level of intensity, and he would often stop her so he could reciprocate.

And hadn’t he come into the bedroom intending to comfort her? How had their roles reversed?

“Hmm," she said, the vibration adding another dimension. "And I want you to come in my mouth.”

He jerked and pulled at her hair, accidentally. “Oh fuck.” He released her and grabbed his own hair instead.

Mercy laughed around him, as she always did when she made him swear. “Maybe after.” She ran her tongue down, licked his testicles, gently suckled them. He met her eyes and was almost overwhelmed by the _want_ in them. “Any suggestions?” She took him back in her mouth.

“Use your teeth a little,” he managed, his voice rough. He fell back against the pillows. “Underneath. I like that.”

She seemed to enjoy this instruction and he certainly enjoyed her enacting of it. Bran lost himself to the mindless pleasure of having her mouth dedicated to pleasuring him, and nothing else, and when he felt he was close, he almost forgot to warn her. “Mercy, I’m going to come.”

She ‘hmmmed’ again - fuck! - and bore down, swallowing him. He tensed forward, gripping the sides of her head so gently as he spent himself in her mouth over and over, a release so intense he heard ringing in his ears. And then fell back against the pillows, utterly drained of energy.

At some point, he realised, the mating bond had opened itself. Had he done that? he wondered. All he could feel from her was happiness. Desire. But mostly happiness. He smiled, bathing in this warmth. “You are amazing,” he agreed.

“We should do that more often.” She crawled up him, breasts brushing against his skin. She kissed him. “I like watching you fall apart like that. How are you doing?”

He thought it was an odd question – clearly he was _superlative_ \- before he realised. “Darryl who?” he laughed, cuddling her. He rolled them onto their sides and sighed, content. He found her could ask now. “How are you?”

“Well. It’s not the circumstances I imagined seeing him again but there wasn’t ever going to be a good one.” She shrugged. Her sadness, echoing through their bond, wasn’t overwhelming. He kissed her shoulder. “I’m dreadfully sad about his wolf. He didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Bran agreed. He had witnessed many things over his life but that was an abomination.

“I—“ Mercy paused. “I always feel guilty, always. If I hadn’t claimed the Tri-Cities as a neutral zone… if you hadn’t had to separate us from you… this would never have happened.”

“The war with the fae has been building for centuries, Mercy. Your part to play in it was small. And, if it hadn’t been you, it would have been something, somebody else.”

“But Adam wouldn’t be where he is.”

“Or he could be dead. Killed in an earlier incident, perhaps. After his first wife divorced him, he was in a bad place. He was on my watch list.” Mercy’s ears pricked. She hadn’t known that. His watch list was a short list of wolves he thought might become a danger to others. Or themselves.

“He was pretty young for that,” she mused.

“Sometimes they are. Life can hurt you, at any age. But you and he started, well. And he got better.” The less said about that the better. “And, remember, it was my choice to separate you from the pack.”

“To save all the other wolves from what I did. From war with the fae. I understood that.”

 _Eventually_ , he thought. She felt hurt, but an old hurt, tinged with the sense of abandonment she felt time and time again. He wanted to climb inside her and stamp that hurt down. “I never left you, Mercy. I would never have abandoned you. I know it felt like that.” He curled around her more tightly, kissed her neck, the side of her face. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that, then.”

She sighed. “So, I guess, you never stop feeling sorry for things? Things in the past?”

“You mean, even as old as I am?”

She snickered, weakly. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“No. Never.”

“Do you – I’m sorry, this feels very invasive – but do you ever keep yourself awake at night with mistakes you think you made?”

“Constantly.”

“That’s a depressing thought.”

“And my mistakes,” he said, warming to this theme because it was making her feel better, “usually have quite far reaching repercussions.”

This time she laughed. “Nightmare.” She wriggled around in his arms, tangling her legs with his and rubbing her foot against his calf. “Do you think we’ll find her?”

Her ran his hand up her side and cupped her breast, stroking his thumb over her nipple. “Yes.”

“I like that you seem confident.” Her hand mirrored his and then her curious fingers drifted down to touch his hardening cock.

Bran kissed her neck, lingering. “I am confident. It’s one of the powers of the Marrok. We will find her. We will help her. Jesse is an extremely enterprising young woman and she is also not stupid. She is well versed in our ways.”

She nodded and relaxed in his arms. He rolled them over, edged himself into the cradle of her legs and sucked on her breasts, laving his tongue across her pebbled nipples. When he made a move to go down, she pulled him. “No, I just want you inside me now,” she said gently.

He smiled and kissed her. “Do you want to be on top?”

She shook her head. “I want you close.”

“We can do that.” He kissed her again and slid his fingers over her, cupping her. “I love you,” he said, pressing a finger inside her.

“I love you,” she gasped, lifting her hips, encouraging.

He raised himself onto his elbows so he could watch her as he guided himself inside. Her eyelids fluttered closed. He gave in the urge to speak. “I want to be inside you all the time,” he admitted. 

She wrapped her legs around him and met his mouth. “Like this. All the time,” she agreed. Then laughed, eyes shining. “Or in your favourite chair?”

“I love that chair,” Bran laughed, kissing her, delighted they could laugh like this, at a time like this. They found their rhythm and for long, luxurious minutes, all he could do was take pleasure in how right it felt to be inside her, to swallow every noise she made, relish the sounds of their bodies joining in the most intimate of ways. Then, he thought, now Adam was gone he could do what he had planned to do on his return. “Will you marry me?”

She caught his mouth. “Yes.”

“Soon?” he added, feeling the tension building.

“Yes, yes, yes. After—after this, ah!” She came, arching her back, face blank with pleasure. He pulled back and angled his thrusts to draw more of those stuttering cries from her and then when she was limp with completion, gave in to his body and let himself go over the edge too.

*

Sam and Darryl found an absolutely furious Jesse locked in a silver cage in the basement of a house in southeast Portland the following afternoon.

“She’s alive. She’s Changed,” Sam said and Bran felt Mercy’s heart break for her. “She’s a dominant and _astonishingly_ in control.”

In the background, they heard Darryl repeat this, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. “Astonishingly.”

Bran breathed more easily. A female werewolf was always a blessing, despite the circumstances. “And the wolf who changed her?”

“On the run, apparently. Jesse is,“ and Bran heard the smile in his voice, “ _keen_ , to help us find him.”

Tad, also apparently present, agreed. “We are all _keen_ to find him.”

“You’ll find him,” Bran said mildly, for it was an order he expected to have followed, “and when you do you will bring him to me. And Jesse might be keen but first she needs to come here, no matter how in control she seems. Who owns the house?”

“The house is registered to a Millicent Brewer. Charles is checking her out. Possibly a relative. The cage is built into the basement; it’s been here a long time.”

Bran’s eyes shuttered. A lone wolf who could Change successfully was a rare beast indeed. There were, perhaps, only one or two that he knew of who might be able to - but had not heard of either in many, many years. They moved to the top of his list. Both would know that Changing without his permission was sacrosanct. “Is there any evidence to suggest there have been more Changed in this basement of this house that belongs to Millicent Brewer?”

“I can’t smell anything except for Jesse and the wolf who Changed her.”

Mercy muttered, “Thank goodness for that.” She was on her phone, no doubt messaging the members of the Aspen Creek pack who needed to hear that Jesse was safe. 

Bran finished the conversation with Sam and tapped his fingers on the desk, thinking. As soon as he hung up, Mercy had called Peggy, organising accommodation for Jesse and pacing in front of him. His mate sounded authoritative and calm, her worry moved aside for more practical matters. She finished her call and then rang Anna, mostly to just share her relief, and then when that was done, she put aside her phone and climbed into his lap.

“I’m so happy she’s alive,” she said, kissing him enthusiastically.

“It’s not what you wished for her, though,” he said, curious. For him, the pinnacle of humanity was the werewolf form. He didn’t romanticise it – it was not for everyone – but he had often felt Mercy didn’t see it the same way.

“I worried because the survival rate for women is low,” she said, slowly.

“And now that she has made it through that first hurdle?”

“Providing she proves her control over the next few months… this is a sexist pig of a species,” she added, wryly. He pinched her butt but admitted she wasn’t wrong. “Jesse is a Twenty-First Century girl, and her father was an Alpha. It’s going to be tough for her. Obeying without questioning does not come naturally; she will fight it.” She kissed him again. “I just want her to be happy and safe.”

“She knows werewolves, Mercy. She asked for this.”

Mercy frowned. “Yeah, I want to know why. She never even hinted that was something she was interested in.”

“Perhaps the thought of her fae boyfriend watching her grow old didn’t please her.”

“Maybe. It doesn’t seem like something Jesse would worry about. She’s so _young_.”

“She’ll be here tomorrow. You can talk about it. If her control is good enough,” he added. “You will have to be careful around her.”

She patted him and climbed off his lap. He let her go reluctantly. “I will. Over the last couple of years, I’ve had a lot of practice with your baby wolves.”

“Of course,” he mused. As his mate, she had responsibilities for their care. That had been Leah’s responsibility too. She had been good at it.

Mercy stopped at the door and came back to kiss him. “She had very detailed notes, too,” she said. “I learnt a lot from her.”

“Thank you for saying that.” 

*

Bran watched Mercy approach Jesse for the first time, tensed in case she made a sudden movement. He misjudged his mate, however, who knew werewolves almost as well as he did, better in some cases.

She stopped six feet from Jesse. “Would you be up for a hug?” she asked.

Jesse, who found Bran’s presence extremely discomforting despite Anna being at his side, didn’t lift her head but nodded frantically.

Still, Mercy moved slowly, her palms turned out on either side of her body. “Don’t look me in the eye,” she told her step-daughter. “At the moment, a Coyote would be too much for you, let alone the Marrok’s mate. It’s a confusing situation even for old wolves. You'd probably try to chase me out of the territory.” She put her arms around Jesse, who leaned into Mercy with the trust and love she’d had as a human.

Jesse whined.

“Been a rough few days,” Mercy said conversationally.

Jesse nodded, sniffing wetly.

“Your dad threw our dining room table across the room,” she said, conversationally. She stroked Jesse’s back. Jesse was adorned in the traditional spare set of pack sweats that everyone carried in their cars, which were swamping her. “Totally split it down the middle. It was ugly anyway.”

Bran snorted. “It was a hand-crafted piece from the 17th Century,” he whispered to Anna, dramatically loudly.

“Super ugly. Feudal banquet ugly. It’s firewood now.” This she whispered into Jesse’s dirty hair. “You’ll have to help me get a new one. You’re going to stay here with us for a bit,” she said, coaxing Jesse towards the stairs. “Just for a week whilst Bran does his mojo, then there’s an apartment so you can have some space.”

“Mojo,” Bran repeated to his daughter-in-law. Anna’s eyes were shining. She held her finger to her lips and followed the other women up the stairs.

Feeling unnecessary, but still wanting to be nearby, Bran threw himself onto the couch in the living area, folding his hands on his stomach. He had updated Charles on his suspicions as to who their wolf was and Charles had surprised him by not only remembering both of them but also knowing of a few places to start looking.

That was good.

He tilted his head to the side as Adam walked silently through the kitchen door.

“The back door was open,” Adam said.

It hadn’t been. Bran slowly rose to his feet. “Jesse is upstairs, being shown her room. I would suggest that we arrange for you to see her tomorrow, once she’s slept. She’s newly Changed. Her emotions are high.”

The real Adam, the old Adam, was present enough that he accepted this. He looked up the stairs. “How is she?”

Bran sighed inside. “She looks good. She’s dominant. I am confident she will make a good wolf.”

“Did he rape her?” Jesse's father asked, bluntly.

“No, Samuel didn’t think so. Mercy is going to ask. We also have a therapist who we use.”

“And the wolf who did this?”

“We are working on it. Based on the description she gave us, there are two suspects. Wolves I have not seen in many decades. Once we have found him, I assume you would like to be present for the exacting of justice.”

“You assume correctly." Something in Adam's model-handsome face warped, slightly. Muscles and bone shifting under his skin. "I will dispense the justice.”

Bran had thought about this, about how it would sit with him, with his people, to have a fae execute one of his wolves. “I am not saying no,” he said, slowly, “but I have not come to a conclusion on this.”

“I will dispense the justice,” Adam repeated, and he seemed to grow bigger in front of Bran.

How tiresome. Bran began to draw power, wondering what other furniture would be destroyed in this interaction. There was a side-table he was particularly fond of.

There was the running of running feet. “Dad!”

“Impeccable timing,” Bran muttered, as Adam deflated, became more human, and his daughter threw herself into his arms.

Mercy and Anna followed, both descending the stairs slowly. _All okay?_ Mercy asked him. He nodded. He felt, then, through the mate bond what it was like for Mercy to see Adam in person. A bone deep sadness and grief. An echo of love. With unerring perspicuity, Mercy looked at him, her eyebrows raised. _How about now?_

Bran looked at Jesse, crying on her father's shoulder, cradled in his protective arms. _It's going to be fine,_ he told her. 

When they found the wolf who Changed Jesse, he would let Adam exact his justice but it would be on Bran's terms, with Bran present. Jesse, more now than ever before, was part of their family and Adam was part of hers. This was a permanent situation, one that he would have to manage for as long as each of them lived. He could give, a little, in this instance.

Mercy moved to Bran's side and he put his arm around her waist.

 _We can do this_ , she said to him. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here follows some 'slice of life' scenes. And more sex. Obvs.
> 
> Also Google told me about the marriage options in Montana. Sound weird but awesome.

“I don’t want a big wedding.”

Mercy’s first wedding had been a surprise – sprung upon her because the planning of it had so overwhelmed her it had been taken out of her hands. It had been cleverly done and, on top of that, the epitome of modern day romance. A story to tell the grandchildren.

Bran was not going to be able to top that.

He stopped, waited for her to catch up with him. It was Saturday and for the first time in weeks he hadn’t had to work, so they had set off after breakfast for a hike. “But, to be absolutely clear, you do want a wedding? Because in Montana we don’t have to do it that way. We could just declare ourselves married.”

A wild look appeared in Mercy’s eyes. “We could do that?”

Tentatively, he rubbed the tops of her arms. “We could do that. Just choose the date from which we’re married, write it down. Probably write a formal letter to someone.” Charles would know.

She sighed longingly, as if what he was suggesting sounded out of her reach. “The _last time_ it was important to the pack. The wedding part.”

Bran was touched. “You don’t need to have a wedding to appease the pack, Mercy. You don’t need to do that for anybody.” 

She closed her eyes, relief relaxing her face. “Oh, good because I really don’t want to.”

He smiled. He had to wonder at her reasoning. Was it because she was embarrassed to be married for a second time? He felt nothing from her now but relief so it was hard to tell. “Okay. So, when do you want to choose to be married from?”

“Um. Next full moon is, what, Wednesday?”

“Yes.” He could almost taste it.

“Full moon is pretty celebratory. Let’s be married from then. Do we really just pick the date?” She looked intrigued.

“I suspect we might have to do something formal – perhaps a letter to the County Clerk.” He shrugged and helped her over a fallen tree. “But that’s the gist. Charles will know.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

They walked on for a few minutes, each caught up in their own thoughts. Judging from the wistfulness of hers, she was thinking of her first wedding which, he reassured himself, was not surprising. He had married Leah shortly after his wolf chose her as his mate and it had been a traditional church wedding, albeit with few attendees. Leah had wanted something ‘respectable’. He’d had Sam as his witness, Sam who had scowled ferociously throughout, disapproval etched into his features. Leah’s witness had been a female, a human whose name he didn’t remember who had lived in the same boarding house. They’d stayed in town for their wedding night – such as it was, the relationship had long been consummated - and then made the three-day journey back to Aspen Creek on foot.

Very different from Mercy’s wedding of spontaneity and people who loved her.

Mercy sighed. “I’m happy, Bran.”

He stopped abruptly. His heart leapt at her words. “Are you?”

“Yes. “

“You don’t – regret?”

“It feels like my life could have gone in many different directions. I’m happy with this one.” She caught up to him and cupped his face. “I’m lucky to have been able to love two men.”

Bran had loved before Mercy. He couldn’t deny her past as much as he could deny his. He kissed her, properly and then lifted her up, the toes of her boots clearing the ground. She laughed. “Let’s go find Charles.”

*

Bran liked that they made the marriage announcement on the full moon because Bran liked a tradition. Werewolf weddings should, to his mind, always take place on a full moon. Or should, from this moment.

After the announcement, the wolves in the pack went for a celebratory hunt and returned to the house to find the humans had set up a party – music, food, drinks, some balloons. He was surprised and touched because there had clearly been some preparation. He wondered who had been behind it. 

In unspoken agreement, they both changed. Him into a slacks and a light blue button down, Mercy into the summer dress he liked. She scurried out of the room before he could grab her to demonstrate how appealing he found her and proceeded to tease him for the rest of the night, well aware that the pack had no intention of leaving for hours. He corralled her, laughing, into the laundry room.

“We have to be quick,” Mercy said, undoing his belt buckle as he threw the lock on the door. “Then I can pretend everyone doesn’t know what we’re doing in here.”

He pushed her against the wall and slid his hands up her thighs to pull her panties down. He kissed her. “Not that quick.”

She flashed him a grin. “You look amazing,” she said, pulling out his shirt. “This is all I’ve thought about all night.”

“Me too.” He slid his hand between her legs and groaned against her mouth. “You’re so wet.”

This comment would normally have made her blush but instead, her eyes were roving the room as she tugged off his shirt, running her fingers over the muscles of his stomach, scraping her nails down his skin “Where are we going to do this? The floor? The wall?”

“I don’t want to wrinkle your dress,” he said, hooking his hands under her thighs and sliding her up the tiled wall. Her bodice was heaving, her breasts rising above the neckline. “My favourite dress.”

“So thoughtful.” He slid inside her, watching Mercy’s eyes flare. He held himself still for a moment. “Good?” she asked, wriggling, and tightening her legs around him until their bodies were fitted together like two puzzle pieces.

He shook his head, because he couldn’t believe it. “So good.”

Bran set a punishingly quick rhythm, Mercy gasping with every thrust. He watched her breasts break free and buried his face in them. She smelt like her, like them, like the forest of their home, like the soap that they shared. He ground their hips together. 

“Going to—“ she said and then covered her mouth as she came. He waited her out, kissing her neck, before he moved again, drawing himself out before plunging deeply back in, focussing on the the heat and the grip of her around him. Mercy moaned, her head rolling restlessly against the tile.

Outside, the music was still loud and he could hear laughter. They knew what they were doing in here, know that Bran was making love to his mate, his wife. Bran felt his orgasm building. He gave into it, returning to his short, sharp thrusts, hitting Mercy inside in a spot that made her whimper and her thighs tremble. “Come inside me, Bran,” she whispered against his face, catching his mouth with hers.

He cried out her name and did just that, shuddering hard as the lost himself in the sheer relief of it. He leaned against her. “Quick enough?” he asked, eventually.

“So efficient. Thank you.”

He leaned back to meet her eyes. She was smiling broadly, looking so happy she took his breath away. The bond between them was singing, louder than ever before. She ran her fingers through his hair. “Love you,” she said, simply.

“I love you too.”

*

Bran had in his time made a study of the women who married an Alpha werewolf.

There were those of course who simply loved the man – territorial, violent tendencies be damned. Sunny Madden had loved her Arthur. Mercy had loved Adam and now, he supposed, him. It didn’t always make for a happy union, unless the wolf came to terms with what his partner needed. Increasingly, the changing role of the sexes throughout the Twentieth Century and into the Twenty-First highlighted tensions between women who expected more democracy and less dictator from their partners. Bran saw these unions being tested now, saw the Alphas of the world begin to adjust, as they should, as the world changed around them. He was adjusting for Mercy and would continue to do so.

Then there were the women who looked for power, in whatever form it might take. He did not see this changing – power had always been desired by both sexes, time wouldn’t change that fundamental nature. On this, there was a double-sided coin. On one side, the Chrissys of the world. Women who sought powerful men because they wanted a protector, wanted to be cherished. They rose above the bloodshed in their ivory tower and looked down from upon high, pristine and – if the Alpha was lucky – loving and caring.

On the flip side, there were the women who wanted to share in that power, to glory in it and their mate’s strength. These women liked the chase, revelled in the power the mate bond gave them over others. In Bran’s experience, human women who fell into that bracket tended to make strong werewolves, if they survived the Change. They could make good mates, too, there was no denying it. The Lady MacBeths of the werewolf world. The Isabelles. The Leahs.

Alpha Hendrick’s mate, Diana, fell into that category. A strong woman with a cool head, an excellent foil for her mate’s more emotionally reactive tendencies.

She did, as well, enjoy the chase.

It was unfortunate, Bran thought, that he had forgot to mention this to Mercy. 

_Is she flirting with you?_ Mercy asked him, astounded. _In front of me._

Bran noted she made no mention of Hendrick, who tolerated Diana’s reaction to Bran in the manner of someone who would get his later. As far as he was aware, their marriage was a closed one and neither would stray but Diana liked to test her limits, as much as she liked the attention of a powerful man. _She’s harmless. Ignore it. I do._

Mercy watched as Diana leaned over to pour Bran more wine into his already half-full glass, her shoulder almost brushing his but – she wasn’t a complete fool – didn’t touch him. If she had touched him, Bran would have been allowed to put her down, as hard as he wanted to. But she didn’t. Instead, she edged close to the line. She had worn, for a supposedly casual dinner, a tight black dress that highlighted her strong, lithe body and considerable assets. Mercy had dressed more appropriately in slacks and a blouse, her silver lamb necklace around her neck, his rings on her fingers.

Diana directed her questions only to Bran. She had ignored Mercy entirely after their introductions. Bran had very carefully fixed his eyes at a point between Diana’s eyebrows when he spoke to her, if he did. He had done his best to include the rest of the table in any conversations Diana started and directed his non-verbal chastisement to Diana’s husband, in an attempt to get him to discipline his wife. But Hendrick, possibly for his own self preservation, had chosen to ignore his wife’s display, as well.

Mercy was angry and then that anger sharpened into one, clear point. _Did she do this in front of Leah?_

Bran said nothing, which gave Mercy her answer. Leah had demonstrated quite early on what happened to women who made moves towards him and it usually involved something sharp and silver. It had… pleased him. He could admit it. There was something about a woman who wanted to fight for him that was appealing on a very basic level. 

He watched Mercy draw into herself. The mate bond receded as her irritation with the situation bled towards him. Bran sighed mentally. An already tedious meal became yet more tedious. 

Mercy politely returned her attention to Hendrick. Typical of his age, Hendrick was solidly convinced of the superiority of his people. Born in the 15th Century, he had witnessed his region go through great political change, some of which he had been directly involved with, which was an area Mercy directly tapped into. She angled her body slightly towards Hendrick and started asking him questions about Denmark, demonstrating one of her talents of wide-reaching knowledge by making her questions insightful and historical.

Hendrick’s attention slid to her curiously, a woman whom he had been respectful of because of her position but had then politely dismissed, with a smirk towards Bran as if Mercy was some sort of whim. Mercy did not exude power – magical or physical strength. She would slide under the radar of most Others, which was a helpful tactic because it would keep her safe, and one that he appreciated in a mate because he knew surviving was about more than brute strength.

Mercy’s turned up her intensity on Hendrick, peppering him with more questions as his answers unfurled with growing enthusiasm, her gaze showing the full concentration she usually turned on one of her cars. She _flattered_ Hendrick on one of his favourite topics and, because she was intelligent, Hendrick didn’t recognise she was doing it.

Diana, during the first course, did not notice her husband’s absorption, so consumed as she was with her attentiveness to Bran. When the second course arrived and she was distracted by the arrival of the expensive cut of meat her husband had ordered to be shared between them, she noticed that Hendrick’s back was half to her. She frowned at him and reached out to put her hand on his arm.

Hendrick’s expression of delighted interest was turned on Diana, eager to share. He was having a good time, instead of the expected polite monotony of a dinner with the Marrok as they passed through their territory. “Diana, Mercy studied the _Gesta Danorum_ at college. Can you believe it? An American!”

“Well, it was recommended to me for a paper,” Mercy said modestly, taking a sip of water.

Bran tried the mashed potatoes, which were delicious. He nudged his side dish to Mercy for her to try and she scooped a spoonful onto her plate, without looking at him.

“Just extraordinary. I suppose you read a translation?” Hendrick turned to her again. “You never saw the original?”

Mercy laughed. “Well, I stumbled through parts of the Latin translation but, no, never saw the original. I’ve never been to Denmark, actually.”

“Ah, for shame. Bran, you must bring your lovely wife to visit us.” Pleased, Hendrick started carving up his beef, placing tender morsels on his wife’s plate first. “I can get you in to see it. We have some other treasures, I’m sure, that would be of interest to an intelligent mind.”

Diana, to Bran’s right, radiated irritation. She tapped long nails against her wine glass.

“I’d love that,” Mercy said, to Bran’s faint misgivings because he would get a follow-up call and invitation now and they would have to go. Castel’s advancement into Northern Europe had never really taken off – he’d made the occasional move, usually in the summer months, but otherwise it was too cold, too dark and he was too lazy. “And you, Hendrick, where in the world do you still aspire to visit?”

“A good question,” Hendrick said, pompously. “Much of South America, of course. I’ve an interest in the Incas. My Spanish is not so good, however, my Portuguese non-existent. Naturally, in Europe, if we are going to speak a language, it would be Castels. Do you speak any other languages?”

“Just a little Welsh,” Mercy said, with a flirtatious smile towards Bran, finally. Mercy had learnt Welsh as many of the pack children did. She had a more colourful vocabulary than most, as he had sometimes resorted to shouting at her in it, he thought, spearing a green bean. “Though my, ah, Charles’s wife, Anna, and I are taking language courses together. It’s an online course, you study with a teacher from the country of the language you’re taking. It’s really a very good way to learn.”

“That is interesting. Perhaps I should try it. You must share with me the details. The mind should always continue to learn. Don’t you agree, Bran?” Not waiting for Bran’s response, Hendrick looked to his wife fondly. “Diana has never attempted to learn anything other than the languages spoken in Scandinavia.”

Diana looked at Mercy then, for the first time. The two women exchanged a look of mutual understanding.

“I imagine Diana has had other things to concern herself with,” Mercy said, mouth quirked wryly, reaching over to take Bran’s wine glass. Her eyes met his and a frisson ran through their bond. Bran turned his mind to where they could safely, and privately, stop the truck on the way home.

“This is nice, isn’t it,” he said, genuinely. “Who would like more wine?”

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More slice of life. And sex. What are the odds.

“I think I’d like to go away together. Properly. Like a honeymoon.”

Bran was surprised. He rinsed his mouth and put away his toothbrush. “When we talked about it before, you didn’t want to.” Admittedly, they had discussed it at the early days of Jesse’s arrival and she had not been keen on leaving Jesse alone.

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Do you have someplace in mind?” 

Mercy thought about it and spat out toothpaste into her basin. They were now using the other bathroom for the most part, tramping through the empty second room to their room. The architect plans for the remodelling were on his desk, waiting to be discussed. “Not really. The last holiday I took was… well, there were a few more fae than I would have liked. Maybe somewhere warm? With a beach. Somewhere quiet.”

Bran nodded. Somewhere she wouldn’t return from with a broken leg. “I’ll have a think.”

“Do you want to? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever known you to take a vacation.”

“Do I want to be alone with you? In a location where you will probably not wear very much? No one from the pack or our family bothering us?” Bran grinned. “What do you think?”

Mercy laughed. “Okay. I’d like that too.” She kissed him, minty fresh. “What did you think of Jesse?”

He had taken Jesse on a one-on-one run, which was part of the final post-Change evaluation process. “She did very well. She has an unusual request though.”

As he suspected, Mercy already knew. “Is it possible? To be part of Darryl’s pack but to live a few hours drive away?”

“It’s possible. Few young wolves do it though. It can be lonely.”

“She’ll have Tad.”

“Not a werewolf. Not pack. And, as of yet, not her mate.” Werewolves so new didn’t have the capacity to form mating bonds. It would take her years before she could do that and perhaps, by then, her relationship with the fae would have waned. “She’s too newly Changed for it to work full-time, though. It would be risky. I’ve suggested she do a week on and a week off and see how it goes. I think she’ll be surprised how hard it is.”

Mercy nodded and stepped into him, burrowing so he put his arms about her. The front of her T-shirt was wet from her exuberant face washing. “She’s strong, though, isn’t she?”

“Very.” And, he thought, with good sense and leadership qualities. Adam’s daughter in truth. Bran had heard the pride in Mercy’s voice when he talked about her. Mercy’s daughter, too. He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder. “She mentioned you had a screaming fight with her mother, yesterday.”

“Oooh, boy did I.”

“I’m sorry to have missed it.”

She must have heard his tone because she explained, “I knew it would be awful so I sat in Charles’s truck and thought zen thoughts.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” He had met Chrissy several times. She was a very traditional human woman – beautiful, in a delicate way, looking for a knight in shining armour – and had been utterly wrong for Adam. Adam had thought Chrissy’s admiration made him more human when in fact it only highlighted the opposite.

“Mmm, she’s a raging bitch.” Bran barked with laughter. His Mercy was normally so refined with her insults. “I didn’t want to put you through it. She said some disgusting things about me. You would have been furious and tried to kill her with your mind.”

He was becoming furious now. She kissed him, distractingly intensely. “Come to bed,” she said. 

*

Bran was aware of her returning, through the light doze he had lulled himself into. Despite knowing he was all-but-awake, she still padded quietly through their room. He heard the shower start and was tempted to get up and join her but he felt loose and lazy, content to stretch in their bed and wait for her. 

It was a few minutes later that she joined him. She had dried herself and plaited her hair but hadn’t dressed. He smiled into the pillow and rolled over as she crawled over him, gloriously naked. “Hello,” he said, opening his mouth to return her kiss.

“I have a question,” she said, laughter in her voice but desire permeating her scent. She nipped his bottom lip and then turned her attention to his neck.

Bran snorted, softly. “I am awash with anticipation.” He pulled off his T-shirt and she helped him remove his shorts. She rubbed herself over him, sinuously.

“Do you think,” she kissed his sternum and he took one of her plaits in each of his hands, “that older werewolves are more adventurous in bed?”

“Ummm,” he said, wide awake now and grinning. He enjoyed it when she was bold. He enjoyed her when she was shy, too, and all the shades in between. “I think _older werewolves_ may have experimented with all the parameters of sex but I don’t think that makes us more adventurous.”

Mercy paid attention to his abdomen, alternating between kissing, nipping and licking. The muscles under his skin leapt eagerly. Other parts of him were also eager.

She sat up, straddling his thighs. Her hands stroked his cock, softly. “Everyone agreed that older werewolves had a lot of knowledge to impart.” She guided him to brush between her thighs and he tensed in anticipation.

“What kind of, ah, knowledge.”

“Well. Ben sometimes ties Andi up. She likes it.” She nudged the length of his cock between her slick lips and used him to pleasure herself.

A strange sensation washed through Bran. Cold and hot. His brain conjured the image of Mercy taking control of him, holding him down. A haze settled over his eyes. He blinked it away.

“You kind of like that idea,” Mercy said, tilting her head to the side. She continued to touch herself with him, sliding him between her, nudging him closer to her entrance with small undulations of her hips. “Have you done that, before?”

“I’m – um. Not sure we should – can we talk about this? After?” he suggested.

Mercy rose up obligingly and sank down on him. “Okay,” she said, on a moan, “later.”

Later, much later, Bran kissed her belly and rested his chin on her stomach. “We would have to work out how to do it. Logistically. And there comes a point where I won’t be able to control myself and nothing will stop me.” He thought about it. It would be an interesting challenge.

“You think?” she said, thoughtfully. 

“Yes. The wolf won’t like being held back from you. It’s good,” he said, thoughtfully, imagining it with her and feeling a distinct frisson of excitement at the idea of her teasing him and him being unable to do anything. Lust and trust was a delicious combination. “In the beginning.”

“So did you do this with Leah?”

Bran pressed his lips together. She didn’t feel jealous, or upset. It was a genuine question. She was curious. “Once. It was a long time ago.”

Mercy thought a little more. “Whose idea was it?” Now there was a twinge of something.

“Mercy.”

She sighed and was embarrassed. “I know. I probably don't really want to know. Adam and I. We were quite traditional. But then,” she added, running her hand through Bran’s hair, to soften the blow of talking about him, “we weren’t together very long. Not like you were with her. I want to try it. I want to try all the things with you.”

Bran chuckled and kissed her stomach again. “That’s… I’m not going to complain. But what brought this about?”

“Oh, there was this quiz. Deena got it from her sister. You scored how sexually adventurous you were. I mean, I didn’t do too badly. You and I won the part of varying locations. Also there was a whole question dedicated to car sex which we both get an A+ for.”

Something occurred to him. He eased himself up onto his hands and crawled over her. He looked her in the eye. “Mercedes, are you _bored_?”

“No!” she yelped. A hint of something bled through, a little nervousness. “Of course not! But I’ve never really been adventurous and I guess I wanted to check if maybe you were—“

“I would never have classified myself as particularly adventurous and, even if I was, I am not bored,” he said. He narrowed his eyes. “I am _very much not bored_.”

“That’s good.” She patted his cheek and then gave him a truly flirtatious smile. “But I do think I’d like to tie you up. If that’s okay.”

*

As a general rule, Mercy’s clothes were only interesting to Bran in terms of access. Did said item give him better access to her body than her usual uniform of jeans and a sweater? Or did it give him less? Summer-wear was his ultimate preference, if he analysed things closely.

Mercy erred towards a more modest style – casual, not particularly bright colours, and she otherwise wore an air of disinterest about the whole thing. This could not have been more different than Leah. Leah had learnt to use clothes as a weapon and had known the power of making an impression with an outfit. He supposed Mercy’s opinion on this might change, the longer she was his mate, but it wouldn’t bother him if it didn’t. True power had nothing to do with fabric. 

So when Mercy walked past him in what could only be described as a tight yellow sleeve, he got up and followed, as if summoned. “Hello,” he said, curiously.

They had not spent much time together that day. He had woken long before six and she had resisted his attempts to make love to her on the grounds that she was still asleep, and grumpy with it, and then he had driven across town to show his face at a meeting. After that it had been back to back calls and an excruciating finance review with Charles, then a long, sad conversation with Juste.

“Hi,” she smiled, stopping by the door to slip on a pair of sandals. She bent over to do this, the round curves of her breasts presented themselves above the bodice, her lambs necklace dangling between them provocatively. Over the dress she wore something that resembled a kimono, a loose, silky black item that she had no doubt put on to distract from the tightness of the dress – which it did not. Her muscular body and taught curves were unmistakably on display. If anything, the contrast between the black and yellow only made this more eye-popping. Her hair, which she was freshly washed and worn long and down, slithered over her shoulder appealingly. “I thought you were with Juste.”

“I was.” She was going for dinner with Jesse, Kara, Anna and Ariana, he remembered. It was somewhere fashionable, as a treat for Jesse’s last week in Aspen Creek, and Mercy had initially been uncomfortable with the location and her appropriate wardrobe options. There had been a special shopping trip. This, he surmised, had been the outcome of said shopping trip.

“How is he?”

Bran was occupied with imagining pulling the top of the dress down and dragging it down her body until she was naked except for the kimono. He was wondering if he could do this with just his teeth. For a moment, he had no clue who ‘he’ was in her sentence. “Good,” he said. She didn’t normally wear much make-up – tonight she had darkened her eyes, lengthened them into a more exotic shape and applied blush. Her lips were glossy.

“Really?” She took a coat down from the rack and shimmied into it, flipping her hair from the collar. “I thought you said he was going to ask to leave.”

“Oh. Yes. He did. We discussed it. He won’t.” Bran dismissed this. He liked Juste but Juste liked to punish himself and he was weary of old werewolves punishing themselves. “You look…” He didn’t particularly know what to say. He both loved and hated the item of clothing that she had chosen to wear. It wasn’t her style and yet the yellow made her skin glow. “You look sensational,” he said, knowing other men would look at her and think the same thing and that was very much the crux of his thoughts.

She smiled one of her toothy smiles. “Thank you. I know it’s not very ‘me’ but I kinda like it.”

“It’s a different style.”

“Jesse convinced me.”

“Ah,” he said. Jesse had a way with Mercy when it came to feminine matters, he had noticed. More like a more fashionable sister than a daughter. “It suits you.” He tilted his head to the side, wondering what brought this on. “Could you wait a moment?” he asked.

He went to his study, opened a drawer in his desk, and returned. “I, ah, thought they might not be too flashly,” he said, handing her the jewellery box. 

“Bran. You shouldn’t have.” She opened the box and closed it again, blushing with surprise. “They’re beautiful. You really shouldn’t.”

“I should. And I like to.” They weren’t even very big diamonds, he mused, watching her put them in. He had chosen studs, something that he thought she would wear more often as they weren’t so obvious. She had grown up with nothing, the child of a teenage mother, passed from home to home and everything she had built up herself, her trailer, the garage, had been taken away from her through tragedy. Werewolf tragedy.

Bran was doing what he could to right that. He had put Charles in charge of a portfolio for her, made sure that the house they shared was now half in her name. Gus was nearing retirement age – he planned to discuss the future of the garage with him, perhaps it was something Mercy would be interested in taking over, hiring her own staff, making changes. He knew Mercy would say he was being high-handed. She accused him of that all the time. But he had no intention of stopping when he knew he could manage things so she could get what she wanted. What she deserved. And if it took him decades to do that so that she didn’t notice it happening, so be it. He could be very patient.

“Anything else back there? A diamond tennis bracelet, perhaps?” she teased.

“Do you want—“

“No, Bran!” she yelped, as if this was a thing he truly might have done.

He grinned, pleased with himself, and bounced on his heels. “You are beautiful. I hope you have a wonderful time. Who’s driving?” He hoped it was Anna. Anna was a very reassuring driver.

“Anna is. She’s picking me up after she gets Kara.” Mercy looked at her phone and smiled at whatever she read. She gave him an unmistakably flirtatious look. “She’s running a couple of minutes late. Do you want to make out?”

In answer, he gathered her close. She sighed into him and they kissed lazily for a few moments. He ran his hands under her coat and over her, stopping with two hands curved around her behind. He pulled back. “You are not wearing underwear.”

She winced. “You could see the line. I bought these special p—Bran!” she squeaked as he yanked her closer.

“I say this knowing you will not like it,” Bran said, his voice low. “But if any man touches you this evening, Mrs. Thompson Cornick, I will know and I will find him and rip his arms off.” He thought about it. “And eat them.”

Anna’s truck drew up to the house, thankfully ending the conversation.

“Of course,” she said, kissing him on the lips, utterly unfazed by his seriousness. “A perfectly reasonable response, my love. Will you let go of me now?”

He resisted, playfully, and then released her.

He waited a couple of minutes for the car to leave and then called Ben to follow them. He snorted to himself. _Reasonable_. Who did she think he was?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything I know about Butte I got from Google. Also, I haven't read Shifting Shadows, the collection of stories which feature Thomas Hao and Butte itself, so if there are canon errors, I truly apologise. 
> 
> Also. Sorry about the cliched ending of this chapter. I honestly tried to stop myself.

“I was thinking of visiting Jesse one weekend.”

They were having one of their rare dinners out, together. Gus had taken a couple of weeks off to go and visit his grandchildren in Florida and Mercy had been working full time, which meant he hadn’t seen much of her. When he _had_ seen her, she had been stressed and exhausted. She had enjoyed it though. Being a mechanic was something she had trained for, whereas being his mate she seemed to view as an elaborate, often inconvenient hobby. 

“In Portland?” he asked, slicing off a piece of steak. They were eating in one of the restaurants that he owned, run by one of his wolves. Any humans who ventured in – passing traffic – tended to be shocked at how rare the meat came, even if they requested otherwise.

“Yes. Tad has to run an errand for his father so he’s going away for a week and rather than just go and stay with Darryl, Jesse asked if instead I visit. I’d like to.”

She wasn’t precisely looking for permission, which is what Leah would have done, and he would have to be unreasonable to deny her, no matter the thought of her without him filled him dread. He chewed. “Shall we negotiate your escort,” he said, peaceably. 

From the set of her shoulders, she had been braced for this. “Let’s. I’ll start. _No one._ ”

“I decline your first offer.” He ate a fry. “Ben and Asil.”

“Ben, yes, Asil, no. He’ll be intolerable and put Jesse’s back up.”

“You may be right.” Though Asil would go if he ordered him too, it would only be fair to send someone who would enjoy spending time with Jesse, however, and not ruin Mercy’s trip. “Then someone from Darryl’s pack.”

Mercy narrowed her eyes. “ _Just_ Ben.”

“Ben and someone from Darryl’s pack,” Bran repeated, no longer negotiating. “Jesse is one of their wolves, alone for a week, with the Marrok’s mate. I will have to tell Darryl you will be visiting her, as she won’t have thought of it. He will want to send someone anyway, likely two someone’s. I am saving Jesse an argument with her Alpha.”

Mercy glared down at her chicken parm, acknowledging the fairness of his comments. “ _Werewolves_. Fine. I’ll have to stay in a hotel or something in that case. We can’t all crash in their apartment; it’s small and only has a pull out sofa-bed.”

Bran didn’t consider himself particularly precious but he did blink at the thought of Mercy willingly spending a few nights on a sofa-bed. “I do own two hotels in Portland. Quite good ones.”

Her head rolled back, as if his property ownership was somehow a problem. “Of course you do. Okay, okay, you win.”

“We both won,” he corrected, gently. He nudged her foot with his, trying to get her to smile. “I won’t worry about you.” As much. “And now you’re having a reunion as well. In a nice hotel.”

“Thank you.” She resumed eating, allowing him a small smile. “Can you find a way to suggest Warren? Honey is great but she’s a dominant female and Jesse is still having problems with that. And ask them what dates are convenient. We were thinking the weekend after next, with me taking the Friday off, but I don’t want to interrupt anyone’s work or something. Or any kind of social commitments.”

Bran raised his eyebrows. “Of course.” Naturally, he wasn’t going to do that. He would tell Darryl what weekend it was and Darryl would provide because protecting the Marrok’s mate was an honour and a privilege. “Shall we share a dessert?

*

As promised, Mercy called him when she arrived. “I’m here. We survived the flight,” she said drily. “Your hotel is _nice_.”

“ _Really_ fucking nice,” Ben said, in the background. Bran closed his eyes and imagined them in the suite he knew Charles had booked them. He had stayed there once. There was a shared living area, with a pull out bed, and two bedrooms, both with en-suite bathrooms. Mercy, he hoped, had the one with the better view.

“Really expletive nice,” Mercy repeated, laughing, sounding carefree and happy. He could hear her bouncing on a bed. “Warren’s on his way up. I’m going to meet Mom for lunch and get that over with and then Jesse will meet us for drinks here.”

“On the _rooftop bar_ ,” Ben added. It was obviously doing more than just Mercy good to get away. He could hear Ben combing through the features of the rooms, reporting back on details like the extensive TV channels, the free bottles of alcohol in the mini-bar, the surprising comfort of the pull-out bed.

“Who will you be taking with you to lunch?” Bran asked.

She sighed. “No one to the restaurant but Ben and Warren are going to stay in the car out front. I can’t have them at the table with me. Mom would freak. It’s going to be hard enough as it is.”

“That makes sense.” He took a deep breath. Portland was harmless, he told himself. No local pack, no seethe. She had three wolves with her, two accomplished fighters who would die for her in a heartbeat. She even knew the city well, having lived there for a few years, so it wasn’t even as if she was a stranger in a strange place. She had _family_ there. 

“You’re worrying unnecessarily,” she murmured in his ear, as if she could hear his thoughts.

“I worry about many things,” he said, trying to downplay his concerns. “Not just about you.”

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

After they hung up, Bran gave himself five minutes to talk himself out of it and then he called Charles. “I’m going to Butte to find a vampire.”

Charles was quiet. “Is this an invitation or are you just letting me know.”

“You’re welcome to join me.”

“Give me an hour to wrap something up.”

*

Charles allowed Bran an hour of silent driving before he began asking questions. After ascertaining that all they had was the scent of a vampire in an apartment building in Butte to go on, Charles sighed. 

“Was I this bad the first time Anna went away?”

Bran said nothing rather than acknowledge that Charles had been eminently Charles-like when Anna went away, early on in their marriage. His youngest son was a deep well of calm and that had been before he had married an Omega. “Anna is a werewolf,” Bran muttered.

“Mmm. Well, at least you’ve always been consistent when it comes to Mercy.” Charles seemed to recognise the wisdom of not engaging Bran on this subject further. “And is your mate aware that you are taking this trip?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it would be respectful to tell her.”

He reflected that there were few things more irritating than being schooled by one’s own child. “She’s at lunch with her mother.”

“All the more reason to call, then.”

Bran stabbed at the controls on the truck, dialling Mercy’s cell phone number. She picked up on the second ring. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Bran said. “I’m taking a trip with Charles. We’re going to see about the vampire in Butte.”

She said nothing. In the background, he could hear the ambient sounds of a restaurant. “Thank you for letting me know. Be safe.” Her tone was frosty. She hung up.

They drove the rest of the way to Butte in silence.

*

The first stop was the building where Bran had smelt the vampire. After establishing that the vampire didn’t live on Frampster’s floor, they split up and combed the building floor by floor. They met back by the truck.

Charles was intrigued. “I scented him on two other floors. Feeding?” he suggested.

As it was getting dark, Bran put in a call to Stefan.

“Marrok. Is Mercy okay?”

“As far as I’m aware,” Bran said drily, exchanging a look with Charles. “Are you familiar with the town of Butte?”

“Ah, should I be?”

“There’s a vampire here.”

Stefan was silent. After a moment, he spoke. “As far as I am aware, Montana doesn’t have a Seethe, because of your rumoured permanent presence no one would risk it. If there is a vampire there, they are not known to me and are likely alone.”

“Would you know if a new Seethe had formed?”

“Just as you would know if there was a newly formed pack.” 

That wasn’t necessarily confirmation, Bran thought. Stefan didn’t demand allegiance from every Seethe in North America. Possibly there was a vampire network of information sharing, however.

“Bran— a word of advice, vampires – like wolves – do not do well alone. If there is a vampire there, he is either very old or very young.”

Bran considered this. “Thank you, Stefan. I look forward to future pleasant exchanges such as these.”

“You too, Bran. Please pass on my regards to your mate.”

Bran hung up.

“The implication that he either old or very young, I take it that means equally unstable,” Charles said.

“Mmm, that’s what I thought.” Though, Bran reflected, it would be unusual for Stefan to not know the whereabouts of the very old vampires that resisted in the United States. That was the sort of information of which the Soldier would keep himself well informed. 

*

Rather than drive home, they got a hotel room and Charles set up his laptop. “I’ll take a quick look at unexplained deaths in the area. Blood loss, heart attack, that sort of thing.”

Bran nodded and went to lie on one of the beds. There had been no messages from Mercy which meant, presumably, she was annoyed at him. She was far enough away that the bond was quiet – if he put some mental power to it, he could probably get a feel for her mood but he didn’t need to do that to find out what he already knew.

He didn’t _like_ that she was annoyed at him. He, more specifically, didn’t like that his actions might have caused her annoyance on her one weekend away. That was careless. Bran mentally rethought his actions, trying to pin-point the moment when it had occurred to him to chase down the vampire. It had been mostly subconscious – a fleeting thought that had popped up every now and again until that morning, when she was gone, and time without her stretched in front of him. He was in the wrong.

He sighed and sent her a message, so as to not interrupt her evening further. _I’m sorry. I will try to get better at this._

He sent it and closed his eyes. His phone vibrated a moment later. _I worry too, you know._ Then a crying emoji. A moment later another message. _I can’t believe you were so desperate without me you went on a vampire hunt._

Bran smiled. _I’m even ashamed of myself._ He paused and followed up with the questions he would have asked her if they had spoken over the phone which, he mused, they would have done if he hadn’t upset her. _Are you having a good time? How was Margi? How is the rooftop bar?_

_One of my sisters came so it was okay. Warren and Ben are trying all the liquors. Even the disgusting ones. The bartender looks afraid._

“Are you texting?”

Bran tilted his phone down so he could look at Charles. “I am a changed man.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Do you want to know what I’ve found?”

He got up. “Tell me.”

“Four unexplained deaths from blood loss in the past year.” Charles clicked between tabs on his laptop, showing a medical site that Bran knew he must have accessed illegally, and then several online newspaper articles. “And three bodies, no known identification, washed up in Berkeley Pit. No recognisable features left to identify.”

Since Berkeley Pit was a lake in a former copper mine and extremely acidic, that was no surprise. “That’s a lot of unexplained deaths. How far do they go back? A couple of years?” Charles nodded. “A newcomer, then.”

“Or he’s recently got careless.”

Bran acknowledged that was possible.

“So, what do you want to do? The deaths are all humans. It’s not really our territory.” He tapped the hotel pen against the desk. “I could report it to our friends in CNTRP.”

When Bran had envisioned this trip, he had thought it would be nothing more than finding the vampire and learning what he could. To have a vampire so close to his territory was troubling but manageable if he was well informed. Most vampires were discrete, kept their feeding habits to manageable levels that they wouldn’t draw attention to themselves. Of course, there were always exceptions.

“Report it to the humans,” Bran said. “And in the morning we’ll go home.”

*

To the wide-eyed wonder of the staff, Bran and Charles shared three extra-large meat pizzas and a bottle of wine at a popular cafe on East Broadway for dinner. Mostly, because they were in public, they talked about non-contentious topics – the family, the pack and some bits of current news. He didn’t often spend time with Charles in this way, not alone, not any more.

Charles would succeed him, one day. He was politically-minded and powerful. The wolves feared him but Anna could make them love him. It was a good combination. He just didn’t know if Charles wanted it. If he had even thought of it.

Now wasn’t the time to discuss it, of course, but it during moments like this when he was alone with Charles that the thought popped up into his head. He had been grooming Charles for decades. His son was a better man than he.

“Perhaps you should take a vacation,” Charles said, popping the last piece of crust into his mouth. “Actually, you should take a honeymoon.”

Bran recalled his discussion with Mercy on the topic. “Where could we go?”

There were wolves everywhere. The Marrok vacationing in Northern America was a no-go. He would have to clear it with the local Alpha and then in all likelihood he wouldn’t be left alone. There would be too many ‘since you’re here, Marrok’ moments. Most of Europe was out, certainly the places he would want to take Mercy. Asia was… problematic, but not for the wolves. There were other mystical beings in Asia that he had run-ins with before and did not want to do so again.

“Maybe an island somewhere. Or just go to a laid-back state. New Orleans? I liked Phillipe.”

Bran shook his head. “He would want to host us. He would flirt with Mercy.” Phillipe had a very laid back attitude towards fidelity. He’d had three mates in one-hundred-years - his wolf broke the bonds when the human lost interest which was… not something Bran had ever considered doing. A mate bond, as far as his wolf and Bran were concerned, was until death. 

“You’re right. He flirted with Anna.” Charles smiled secretively. Bran imagined because Anna hadn’t noticed she was being flirted with, which would have pleased Charles. Mercy was the same; it simply didn’t occur to her that a man would be interested, _particularly_ if she was married. If asked, she would have just said the man in question was ‘friendly’. “I managed but you would probably snap his neck. He has no sense of self preservation.”

Part of his charm, Bran admitted. “The Bahamas.”

Charles pulled a face. “Too many ghosts.”

“Really?” That was a consideration. It was easy to forget Mercy’s ghosts – because she rarely voluntarily spoke of it, treating it as a burden she bore alone.

“What about the UK?”

Bran tilted his head to the side. “That’s a thought. She’s always wanted to go.” It would serve a purpose, too, if they spent a few days with the new Alpha. At the moment, Castel’s revenge was taking the form of financial attacks on the businesses Madden’s heir had inherited. Charles had been enjoying advising her on how best to respond.

Mercy would like the UK, he was sure. They could visit Scandinavia, too, which would please Hendrick and Mercy was genuinely interested. “I’ll suggest it. If we went in the Summer there is a small chance the weather would be good.” Or a potential for weeks of solid rain, he admitted.

He checked his phone. She hadn’t contacted him in an hour or so. He sent her a smiley face. A minute later, he got another one back. Then a little face with a tongue. “I’m beginning to warm to text messages,” he said.

“Unbelievable,” Charles said.

“You’ve got to roll with the times, Charles.”

*

They met with the scent of the vampire as they returned to the hotel and, with inevitable but growing anticipation, they followed his trail to their hotel room. Once they were certain they weren’t being watched, Charles took a moment to shift, pulling on Bran’s power to do so even faster than normal. Bran nodded a countdown to enter the room and quickly pushed open the door, Charles rushing in ahead of him.

The vampire was standing by the desk, his hands out, clearly in the process of leaping back from Charles’s laptop. “Hi, please don’t kill me, hi,” the vampire said, urgently. He appeared young, they always did, and wore tight black jeans and an artfully distressed T-shirt under an open denim shirt. He smelt of old blood but also hair product and coffee.

Charles growled, approaching low to the ground, ears pinning back. Bran closed the door behind him – there was a family of humans walking down the corridor from the elevator, talking loudly.

“Look, I know you’re looking for me. But it’s not me. It’s not me.” He gestured to the laptop, which was open and unlocked. One of the newspaper articles was open on the browser. “I promise.”

Charles growled again.

Bran’s nose was telling him that this vampire was currently no threat but the wolf disagreed – vampires were always a threat, even young flamboyant ones. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves?” he suggested.

“Yes, good idea, I’m Eric,” the vampire said eagerly, flicking his blue eyes from Bran to Charles and back again, undecided over who he was more alarmed by. He settled on the ostentatiously large dog. “Eric Blythe. I was born here. I mean, I am from here. Butte. I’m twenty-six years old. Five years ago, I went to Vegas for my twenty-first birthday and got bit by a vampire.”

“Vegas,” Bran repeated, scoring his memory for what he knew of vampire seethes in Nevada. He wasn’t aware there was one.

The vampire continued to talk, misinterpreting the reason for Bran’s repetition. He pushed his artfully styled floppy dark hair from his forehead. “I know, I know. It’s a cliché but my dad gave me some money and since the divorce with my mum, and me coming out, he’s tried to be super supportive, you know. Like, he just wanted me to have a good time. Plus, I saw Britney, which was something else. Before, you know.” He pulled a face and made a stabbing motion with two fingers on his right hand which were, Bran guessed, supposed to indicate the monumental abhorrence that was the vampire’s kiss.

Charles cocked his head, utterly confused.

Bran sifted through the pieces of information with which he had been rapidly – an unexpectedly – been gifted. “Why did you think we were looking for you?”

“I run the security for Silver Bow Properties? I saw you on the security cams.”

Bran slid Charles a look. A security guard. Which would explain why his scent was on every floor but not specific to an apartment.

Eric decided he needed to explain further. “A few weeks ago, we had a break in – a tenant got his apartment broken into, then there was a suspicious ‘maintenance’ worker spotted in the building who did kind of a shoddy job covering it up – so the management installed some real cameras. Anyway, I always review the day footage before I come on shift and I saw you casing the place.” 

Bran gave Eric the Vampire a slow blink. “I see.”

“And werewolves, I mean. That isn’t a smell you can ignore. And my “master”,” Eric used the finger quotes, as if this was a word he didn’t chose to use, “he always said to look out for werewolves, particularly here. He says Montana is riddled with you guys and you wouldn’t take kindly to me being around even if I’m totally, totally, not a blood-thirsty killer.”

It was almost too much. Charles seemed to agree and plonked himself down on his hind quarters. He was _radiating_ laughter. If they had been alone, he would have rolled onto his back and made ‘chuffing’ noises.

“Eric, how did you find us?” Bran asked curiously.

“Oh, Stacey, at the pizzeria. We used to date. I mean, when I was still trying to work out if I liked girls. She said you were staying here. She saw your hotel card on the table and she knew I was looking for a big Native American guy. All out-of-towners go to that café or the Italian if they stay here, _guaranteed_. And Stacey’s sister works at the Italian, too, so all bases covered. Anyway. I told them both to keep an eye out for you because I thought you were really good looking. Which you are,” Eric explained to Charles sincerely. “Even as a wolf.”

Sombrely, Charles nodded his understanding. He gave Bran a look and then trotted into the bathroom to change back.

Bran tried to recall if he had scented a vampire on any of the humans who had served them. “Eric, I have some more questions, if I may.” he said, eventually. Eric waved a hand magnanimously, his face open and eager. “Firstly, why assume we were looking for you?”

“Well, I didn’t. I was just curious. Why werewolves in my building? Seems a bit coincidental. And my dad always says that there’s no such thing as coincidences. Then, you know, I saw that and my dad was totally right.” He nodded to Charles’s laptop, which he had accessed. At Bran’s raised eyebrows, he hurried to explain. “Oh, I’m good with technology. One of my.” He waggled his fingers, summarising the mysticism of his secret vampiric power in a gesture. “It’s how I could get into the room, as well. Anyway, sorry about that. I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

Definitely too much. Bran was done. He sat down on the end of Charles bed and gestured for Eric to take a seat. “It’s unusual for a vampire, particularly such a young one, to be living alone.”

Eric’s brow furrowed as he dropped into the armchair by the desk. “I don’t live alone. I live with my boyfriend.”

No doubt one of the boy’s sheep, Bran thought. “I meant with other vampires.”

“Oh. Yeah. That didn’t work out.” Eric fidgeted a little. “My ‘master’, he says I have the survival skills of a duckling and it would be probably be better if I didn’t stay with him in Vegas. Which, honestly, I’m pretty glad about. Living there… it was something _else_. I just do the occasional odd job for him now. Remotely. You know.” He waggled his fingers again, from which Bran surmised that Eric applied his technical wizardry to some no doubt illegal activities. 

Bran supposed if Eric had such a skill, keeping him out of the purview of other vampires would be useful. He wondered if he had used up his immediate credit with Stefan to find out more about the vampire in Las Vegas. He wondered how extensive Eric’s skill was and if their own security could withstand it. He knew Charles kept a great deal of the truly sensitive information offline – would even that be safe? Everything was still digital. 

Hmm.

Charles came back from the bathroom, dressed in jeans and an orange T-shirt. Eric’s smile became more appreciative, if not provocative. “Woah. You are even better looking in person.”

“I’m married,” Charles said crushingly and went to look at his laptop, which was very high spec and could only be opened by fingerprint. Charles had been very proud of it. Bran’s lips twitched at the wave of disappointment that emanated from his son. “What did you mean when you said it wasn’t you?”

Demonstrating, perhaps, the lack of survival skills, Eric bounced over to lean over Charles’s shoulder. He pointed at the screen. “Oh, yeah, that. _Not_ me. My meals come from a very supportive community and the local blood-bank that my boyfriend works at. Whoever is killing people is human and really sick. Dumping the bodies into the Pitt. That is disgusting.”

“Why do you say that?” Charles asked, then hurried to elaborate, “The human part.”

“Stacey’s boyfriend works at the morgue. He’s an Autopsy Technician. _Super_ smart. He got me in because sometimes my nose helps him out in front of the boss. I had a good sniff of a couple of the bodies. Whoever done it was human, the same one. Ah, I saw that one,” he said, pointing to one article. “Aaaaand this one.” He then tabbed across and pointed to another screen. As he was doing this, he was presenting his throat to Charles, utterly unconcerned with the threat that Charles posed.

Charles cast Bran a wide-eyed look, as if to say ‘are you seeing this?’, which Bran returned twice-fold. If all new vampires were like this, it was a wonder the species survived.

*

After Eric the Vampire expressed his willingness to help, Charles put in a call his CNTRP contact and conveyed Eric’s details to them. Eric was reasonably confident he would be able to recognise the killer and, he said, only worked four nights a week so had plenty of spare time.

Bran looked at the eager face of the young man in front of them. He sighed. “Might I give you some advice?”

Eric nodded. “Dad says the wise profit from advice,” he intoned seriously.

“As did Harper Lee.” Bran powered through Eric’s lost expression, mourning the education system of America. “With the humans, don’t reveal too much about yourself and your Master. Stick to the bare minimum of details. Try to convey an air of mystery.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Eric was embarrassed. “I, ah, have a tendency to talk when I’m nervous.”

“Practice not doing that,” Charles advised. “You’ll live longer.”

“And you don’t want your Master to feel that you’re a liability,” Bran added. Older vampires had denominations. Perhaps ‘Duckling’ could be Eric’s. He wondered how long Eric would survive in this world. “Are you easy to track down? Could the humans find out where you live?”

Eric shook his head. “No, I’m pretty careful with that sort of stuff. We rent an apartment from—“ Bran held up a hand and Eric made an ‘aha!’ noise, pointing finger guns at him. “Gotcha.”

“Because you’re young, and clearly from around here, you’ll be easily recognisable. You might want to consider relocating at some point. Or trying a new look. Lastly,” Bran shook his head, because he had not anticipated this series of events, nor the inexplicable urge to support the boy, “Here is my number. If you ever have any problems with werewolves, call me.”

“Really? Hey, that’s really nice of you.” He gave Bran an appraising look that made Charles snort. “You’re pretty cute too.”

“I get that a lot,” Bran said.

*

It would surprise Bran later that the Duckling proved to be the least of his problems that weekend. No sooner had he and Charles arrived home, it was to find a Tag in his drive, in wolf form, bleeding heavily.

He spent the following thirty hours racing up the mountain, down again, back up. Four shifts, two silver bullets – just a scratch – and one of his wolves was in serious condition in the hospital. It was dark by the time he collapsed into bed and still he was aware that she would be home any time soon. He willed himself to stay awake, even as he curled around her pillow.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Mercy whispered, finally, creeping into the room after midnight.

Bran grunted. “Almost asleep,” he claimed. “Waswaitingforyou.”

“Idiot.” She crawled into bed and he gathered her close, tucked her into his side and then mashed his face back into the pillows. “Wow, you haven’t even groped me; must be bad.”

He made a half-hearted twitch, then another grunt as he gave up. He was drained of all energy. 

She kissed the side of his head. “Charles called me whilst you were in with the doc. Are you okay?” Her fingers trailed over the bandage on his back

“Mmm. Sleeping.” Now that she was home, Bran’s body finally relaxed, everything right again. “Speak in morning.”

In the morning, Bran woke and the bed was empty. It was nearly ten, an unspeakably late time to wake. He rolled out of bed, stretched and followed the sound of the radio to the kitchen, where Mercy was slicing up fruit.

Without speaking, she handed him a glass of orange juice and he leaned against her side whilst he drank it down. He finished, feeling the acidity perk him right up. “Thank you.”

She took the glass and patted his hair, considering. “This is some good bedhead. You were very restless, last night.”

Since there was no one around, and because he wanted to, Bran wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck, taking comfort from her presence. “Bad dreams,” he admitted, breathing her in. He rubbed his hands over the softness of her sweater, layered over the lean muscles of her back. He squeezed her. “I missed you.”

She touched the bandage. “I was worried.”

“The vampire was funny,” he said, leaning into her so much that she had to prop herself against the counter. “I’ll tell you more about that later, when I can do justice to it. The mess when I got home… did Charles tell you?”

“Tag did. Almost everything. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t know Leon had a surviving family. Certainly not that he had Changed them.” He squeezed his eyes shut. Sixty years they had harboured this desire to exact revenge on the man who had hurt them. And Bran had sheltered him. “How did I not know.”

“Tag said he didn’t remember.”

“It’s an excuse I’m hearing a lot.” He picked her up, determined to start the day anew. “Let’s go back to bed.”

*

As she moved above him, he ran his hands over her skin, memorising the length of her thighs as they rose and fell, the juts of her hip bones, the smooth, soft skin over her abdomen, the muscles flickering beneath. He cupped her rounded breasts, thumbs caressing her nipples. When she tilted her head back, the very tips of her long hair brushed against his legs.

For once the desire to take was muted in him. Instead, a dreamy need to be taken, to have her control the pace of their lovemaking, replaced it. The late morning sun sent shards of light between the curtains, catching her hair, making her glow.

Her breath quickened and her pace changed, becoming a sensuous grind, her hands coming to rest on his abdomen as she leaned forward and chased her pleasure. He lifted his head to kiss her, bringing his hands to her hips to help her. “Come for me,” he said against her lips.

“Not yet,” she said, licking his top lip. “Not without you.”

She pulled back and changed her angle to one she knew would stimulate him the most. He gripped her hips, groaning, as she took him in deeper, enveloping him. His orgasm built fast, faster than he expected and he slid his thumb between them, circling her clit. “Not yet, not yet, not yet,” she panted.

He pressed and watched her climax hit, as she tipped her head back and cried out. With her clenched around his cock, he let himself go, holding her hips and thrusting up, pulling short, sharp cries from her as he pulsed inside her, filling her, chasing the pleasure she gave him. He flipped them, suddenly, and ground them together, drawing a shuddering moan from them both as he shook through his final release.

He raised himself up on his arms and looked between them as he pulled himself from her. He slid down her body and licked her, tasting them, their combined essences. He rested his cheek on her thigh and closed his eyes.

“You’re pregnant,” he sighed.

She pulled her arm from where she had draped it over her eyes and raised herself up. She did not feel surprised. “How do you know?”

He kissed her damp curls. “You taste different,” he admitted. “Smell, too. I didn’t put it together until just now.”

“Huh. Would anyone else know?”

Bran gave her a look. “Not unless they are _down here,_ “ he said, his voice ending in a growl.

She laughed, silently, no more than a push of air. “I worked it out in Portland. I’ve got a pregnancy test in my bag which, I have to tell you, was an exercise in extreme stealth purchasing without anyone of the others noticing. I was going to take it today, when I got the nerve up.”

“You can still do that. Just to be sure.” Bran crawled up to be beside her, pulling the sheets over their cooling bodies. They had not been trying to get pregnant. He had seen Mercy religiously take the little pill every day. Even now it was on her bedside table. “They do say no birth control is one-hundred-percent effective,” he said, by rote.

“Thank you, Dr Bran,” she said pertly. She glanced at him, nervous. “It’s not… we haven’t talked about this before. I know--“ She stopped and pursed her lips. Her eyes held a wealth of knowledge and pain. “I know.” 

He nodded. If she was carrying a werewolf child, it would die within her. He closed his eyes at the expectation of her pain. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. I knew, eventually, we would try for a baby.” She leaned over him, a warm darkness against the back of his eyelids, and touched his hair. “I want one. You want one.”

He nodded, slowly. He did. The wolf very much did.

“You probably want several,” she teased.

Bran snorted. “One healthy one would be more than enough.” He looked up at her, at the concern on her face, for him, not for her. He held her face. “Mercy, I’m not like Sam. I am rational about this.”

She met his eyes. Worry and fear permeated the bond between them.

“I will be okay,” he said, confidently. “And so will you. We just need to know how far along you are.” 


	17. Chapter 17

To their surprise, Sam estimated she had potentially already gone through two full moons whilst pregnant. Mercy winced, thinking of the times she had changed into her Coyote form, a risk to the baby she had been unknowingly carrying. She would have to stop now.

"Is that a good sign? That it might not carry the werewolf gene?"

Sam was gentle with her, which Bran could feel she hated. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” he said, holding her hand. “Most often, it can be as early as the first but sometimes as late as the fourth.”

Bran had taken the swivel chair at Sam’s desk. He watched Sam holding Mercy’s hand, idly curious.

Mercy shook Sam’s hand off, irritated. “I know that. I know the statistics,” she said. She unknowingly summoned Bran to her with a _want_ down the bond, towards him, and he jumped off the chair and came to her side. She wrapped her arm around his. “Basically, I could miscarry anytime from, well, now.”

Sam stayed seated, looking up at them. “That’s the long and short of it. I’ve got a brochure, with the symptoms, and what to do. Da knows.”

Bran did know. Bran had, a few years ago, the pleasure of reviewing the copy that would go to every anticipatory human mother in his pack and a few beyond. It had been sad reading and, at the time, he had been dispassionate. He had been grateful that Leah's interest in children had been non-existent, even if she - like other werewolf females - had a natural jealousy of women who could carry a child to term. Like Mercy, Bran reflected. 

“I know. I’ve read it before.” She firmed her lips. “Are there any good signs to look out for?”

“Unfortunately, at the moment all you’re looking out for are the bad ones. I’m sorry. It’s a very difficult first few weeks.” Sam paused, blue eyes moving from Mercy to Bran and then back again. “You’ve done well to get this far, though, Mercy. That’s… that’s something.”

“Not a good sign, though.”

“Statistically—“

“Okay!” Mercy jumped down from the bench. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Can we still have sex?” This last she asked with the intention of disturbing his son, a little revenge. Bran felt a burst of pride for her.

Sam blinked. “Yes, you can still have sex. With my father. Enjoy yourself.”

“Oh I do,” she said, baring her teeth at him.

Bran drove her home, the silence in the truck saying everything he couldn’t, and she couldn’t. They had a quiet meal with Charles and Anna, neither of whom knew but sensed something was amiss, and Bran did a couple of hours work before following Mercy to bed.

“Normal couples can celebrate,” Mercy said, in the dark, her face wet.

He kissed each tear track. “I know.”

*

Mercy threw up three days before the third full moon, sending Bran into spasms of fear. He paced outside the bathroom because she refused to let him and his anxiety into the room. “I should call Sam,” he said.

“I am _fine_.”

“You’re throwing up.”

“I’ve stopped. I’m just sitting here now.”

“Can I come in?” He didn’t wait, pushing the door open to find her slumped against the bathtub, her eyes closed. She was pale, tendrils of her hair plastered to her forehead.

“Please will you open the window?” she croaked.

He did so and then sunk down onto the floor next to her. “Are you in any pain?” he asked, touching his fingers to his mouth because he wanted to touch her.

“No. I just feel… queasy.”

Three days before the full moon and Bran could feel it’s pull. It didn’t seem a coincidence that Mercy’s nausea, that had been a mostly low-grade thing, suddenly spiralled when a werewolf would be beginning to feel the effects of the moon. He felt something low and painful bleed through him. The werewolf blood had bred true, he was certain. _She was going to lose the baby_.

As rapidly as the thought had formed, he squashed the emotion he felt, pulling it back so she couldn’t feel it.

“It’s not as bad as it was,” she said, her eyes still closed, but face thoughtful. “It’s getting better. Maybe I just ate something.”

He pinched the edge of her t-shirt between two fingers. He humoured her. “What did you eat?”

“I microwaved a frozen Burrito at the garage. The numbers have worn off on the dial so it’s always a bit of a guessing game.”

Bran pulled a face. His tolerance for fast food was low – they tasted of preserving chemicals and nothing else. “Well, no wonder.” He frowned. “You hate ready meals.”

“I literally _craved_ it.” She leaned against him, taking a deep breath. “I feel much better now.”

*

Bran didn’t stoop so low that he personally followed Mercy around during the week of the full moon. Instead, he sent a series of casual observers to report back on her, who were baffled but obedient. He claimed, when pressed, that it was because Charles had received an unidentified threat but at the look of rage that bloomed on Ben, then Asil, then Juste’s faces, had to pull this story back to being something more vague and manageable.

Ben asked suspiciously if Mercy had been made aware.

“Not as such,” Bran said. “I didn’t want to worry her. I forbid you from telling her.”

Ben was unhappy; Bran didn’t care. He cared later, of course, when Mercy slammed her way through the house to his study and demanded to know if he had sent the pack to ‘stalk’ her in a tone that told him clearly someone had tattled. “Who told you?” he asked, truly confused. “I _forbade_ them.” She must have manipulated them somehow. He narrowed his eyes at her, prepared to demand how.

“Never mind who told me,” she raged, stealing his power and almost lighting the room with her anger.

The frisson of excitement he got from her turning his power on him was not timely, he thought, trying not to grin at her.

“I just asked them to check in on you,” he said, faux-meekly.

Mercy was not fooled. “You told them I was under threat. They growled at the customers, picturing a gun-toting madman. Or a fae with a grudge.” She waved her hands around. “Not—not— _you know_.” She made a frustrated noise and stormed out of his study.

A few minutes later, still simmering down the bond, he heard her on the phone to Ariana, making plans for the evening. As it was full moon, the pack would be on a run and Bran would be expected to be with them. Mercy, of course, couldn’t participate. He heard snippets of her conversation, as was her intention, and she had twisted her tale to sound as if she needed a night away from him and his controlling habits. Ariana was the only other person who knew Mercy was pregnant. He could hear her being sympathetic.

When she returned, Mercy was calmer. She came to perch by his arm on his desk. “If we didn’t have the bond, I would understand it better. But you can feel how I am. It’s not logical.”

He looked up at her. She had plaited her hair to one side and it hung down to her elbow. “Logic has nothing to do with it,” he explained. “I thought you would prefer them to me.”

She tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, there was a very serious moment yesterday when I considered relocating my office to Gus’s.”

Once they had passed, Bran could find humour in his moments of sheer insanity. What was intriguing, of course, was how rational he felt at the time. He had been mid-way through wondering if Gus’s wi-fi was secure enough for the transactions he had to do on a day-to-day basis before he realised how preposterous he was being.

“Oh.” Mercy considered this, the corners of her mouth twitching. She reached up and began to stroke her fingers through his hair, thoughtful, and he leaned into her. “That would be awkward for everyone. How about you come for lunch every day, instead?”

“I could do that.” He could _make_ her lunch. The idea of bringing her food pleased him. No chance of a risky burrito that way.

She continued to pet him. He wondered if she would be prepared to lie down with him for a little while. He liked holding her. In his arms, she was safe. He found himself strangely reluctant to go for a run on full moon, knowing he was leaving her vulnerable. Was he being neglectful?

Mercy snorted. “No. Go for your run. I’ll be at Ariana’s drinking herbal tea and talking about fae folklore.“ She pulled at his hair. “I _would_ be up for a nap, though.”

*

She breezed into his study a week after her third full moon, wearing her overalls and a smear of grease across her forehead. Normally when she got home she changed straight away. “Hi. Let’s have sex.”

“Hello.” He looked up at her as she came to stand by his chair. He had felt her return home and felt her intent to see him but her words surprised him. “What?”

“I’d like to have sex.” She glanced at his screen and grew distracted, even as his focus laser-ed in on her. “Are you on Facebook?”

“Yes, it’s one of the ways I casually spy on my people,” he said. As she wasn’t looking, he stared intently at her middle. The overalls were by necessity not particularly tight but this morning he had seen her get out of the shower and there was a new dimension to her abdomen. She was starting to show, her body adapting to the life inside of her.

Every day he still woke up with the same thought. _Is this the day it happens?_

“Really. Surely most of them have private pages?”

“You’d be surprised how few.” He cleared his throat. “Back to the previous subject.”

“Oh yes. Come on. You haven’t touched me since we found out and I miss you.” A wave of desire washed over him as if she had carefully contained it for just this moment and she left the room, expecting him to follow. Which he did.

In the bedroom, he stood by the puddle of her dirty overalls and listened to the sound of the brush she used to clean her nails and hands. She stuck her head out from the bathroom. “You’re nervous,” she said. She had half unwound her braids.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re very fragile,” he said, simply. It had been a conscious effort on his part. He started to undress, tossing his clothes onto the chair. When she emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing just her bright blue panties. She had washed her face and beads of water were travelling down her torso, across her breasts. He saw her in various states of undress all the time. He was surprised to be breathless at the sight of her, as if he remembered, suddenly, that he was allowed to want her. All the time.

“Not so nervous now, I see,” she said, eyes dipping lower, and allowing him to walk her backwards onto the bed. He crawled over her body to meet her mouth with his.

They kissed, languidly, for a few minutes. He stroked his hands down her face, over her shoulders, along her arms, re-familiarising himself. She cupped her hands around his jaw, thumbs stroking his cheeks. He lowered himself down, covering her, gently, skin to skin, and they looked each other in the eye.

“I missed you too,” he said, wryly.

She wriggled, teasingly, against the part of him that had more obviously missed her, and wrapped one leg around him. She nipped his lower lip with her teeth. “I thought you’d gone off me.”

“You did not,” he said, nipping her back.

“I did!”

He felt a little truth to her statement, enough for him to feel he needed to correct it. “Mercy, that’s ridiculous. I just didn’t want to bother you.”

She laughed. “Bother me. _Bran_.”

He lowered his face to her neck, nuzzling. She tilted her head to the side and arched up against him. He was surprised when she grabbed hold of his hair and pulled until they were looking at each other again. She prodded at the bond between them. “Wait. Bother me. Explain. There’s something—.”

Bran wasn’t sure what she was getting at. He kept the bond as wide open as he could, allowing her to explore. “You’ve been sick. And worried. I didn’t want to - ow, Mercy, my love, don’t _stab_ at it - _bother you.”_

She stared at him. “Okay, but I’ve only occasionally been sick. And, normally, sex is your _go to_ comforter. It is your default response to emotion before even talking about it. I get sad, sex. Angry, sex. The same goes for when you’re worked up about something. Sometimes I think you use sex as a method to think things through. Last full moon you got up at 2am with an epiphany you had _when you were inside me_.”

It continued to be an intriguing experience having a woman with such a powerful knowledge of his behaviours, Bran mused. Uncomfortable, of course, but intriguing. “It was a brilliant idea, too,” he said. 

She ignored this. “So tell me why. Why do you think it would bother me? I love making love with you.”

“I don’t know,” he said, because he didn’t. He shook his head, frustrated. “Your body is going through a lot and—“

“You don’t think it’s because you’ll be rough with me and something will happen to the—“ She stopped, because she never referred to the baby as a ‘baby’. She tried not to refer to it at all, which Bran understood.

“No,” he said. Because it would be irrational. He winced and dropped his head down onto her chest, recalling how he had watched her that morning, drying herself off, the thickening at her waist, and had felt a wave of tenderness, of want for the future she carried, so powerful his hands had shook. “A little?”

She arched up against him, reminding him why they were there. “That I can deal with.” She ran her hands down his back and pressed fingers into the muscles on either side of his spine and then pulled his head up for a kiss. She poured desire into him, blinded him with need. “I want you, Bran. Have me.”

They made love slowly, holding each other’s eyes as Bran pushed inside of her, a slide of pleasure so exquisite it was almost torture. She moaned and dug her heels into his back. He kept up a slow, steady pace, bowing his head to kiss her neck. He left the bond open, telling her all the things he couldn’t say out loud, _love you, need you, want you, perfect-perfect-perfect,_ as his thrusts became more erratic, as she urged him on, pulling him deeper, lifting her hips to meet him.

Abruptly, he remembered the baby and froze. “Are you all right?”

“What? Don’t stop!”

He held himself above her as she stared up at him. “I—“ He shook his head, tried to clear the fuzz of the spell she had woven, for that was what it felt like.

Mercy’s expression became stormy. “Are you serious?”

He began to move, more gently. “This is non-negotiable,” he growled at her, softening his hands where they gripped her thighs.

“Oh boy,” she sighed, sliding her hand between them to touch herself. “I love you, too.” And she came, clenching around him, her back arched in ecstasy. 

Watching her was his undoing. He came in three short, tight thrusts and then held himself still as he finished, shuddering.

“Non-negotiable,” she murmured, as he curled around her. She snickered. “Let me know when you’re ready for round two.”


	18. Chapter 18

The ultrasound had Sam ‘hmm’ing. Since it couldn’t be interpreted as either positive or negative, Mercy’s eyes rolled to Bran’s, exasperated. _Deal with your son,_ she told him.

“Illuminate us,” Bran requested, staring at the ultrasound which might as well have been a visual of deep underwater for all the clues it gave him.

“So, everything looks fine.“ Sam rubbed his hand over his face. “The foetus is a good size. You said you were sick over full moon.”

“Nausea. Mostly,” Mercy admitted. “I thought it was a bad burrito.”

“And not any other time?”

She shook her head.

“Do you remember feeling sick around the previous full moons?”

She lifted and dropped a shoulder. “I’ve felt weird for a few weeks. Not hungry. Then really hungry. More tired than usual. It’s part of the reason I thought I was pregnant. Didn’t throw up though until last full moon. Did Ariana?”

“No. There were no noticeable additional symptoms around the full moons.”

“Do we still need to worry, then? For the next full moon?” Hope was creeping across Mercy’s face and Bran watched as she squashed it.

“I’m afraid so. After that, we can start being quietly confident.”

*

Like the previous month, Mercy’s nausea returned just before the fourth full moon. This time, Bran packed her, protesting, into the car and met Sam at the clinic.

“Not a bad burrito,” Mercy said, throwing up into the bucket Sam had helpfully provided her.

“Any other symptoms? Abdominal pain? Pain anywhere? Any bleeding? Spotting?” Sam rattled through the questions, as Mercy alternated between retching and responding. 

“Okay,” Sam said, patting her back gently as she rested on her side on the bed. He looked at Bran. “Here’s the worst case scenario. The baby is a werewolf and is feeling the affects of the moon. Mercy’s Coyote magic is repelling it, which for some reason is causing the nausea. Stop growling at me, Da, _I_ didn’t do this to her. This is on you, old man.”

Bran, who hadn’t noticed he was growling, made an effort to be silent. Sam was only two dozen years younger than him, a fact he liked to forget.

“We’re going to keep you here and treat you as if you are having extreme morning sickness. I’m going to run a few more tests and we’ll do another ultrasound.” Despite himself, Sam sounded excited, and Bran pushed his hands into his pockets so no one could see the claws. 

Mercy groaned. “Really?”

“When you get better, we’ll send you home.”

The ‘when’ brought a small smile to her lips, which were pale and dry. She licked them and he felt her stray thought about lipbalm. He knew there was a stick in the car, which he would get her. “Okay. Is there really no other natural reason why this might be happening?”

“I’ll run a few more tests to just for reasons outside of the pregnancy. But otherwise, it really could still be morning sickness, just intermittent and coincidentally around full moon.”

“Ariana really didn’t…?”

“No, I'm sorry. The fae don’t, as a rule. Apparently.”

“Lucky them.”

They passed a sleepless night and then another. Sam had Mercy on some mild anti-emetics and hooked up to an IV drip, which seemed to improve things. By the day of the full moon, her nausea subsided enough that she was able to eat a little toast and sip some broth.

“I want you to go for the run.”

Bran stared at her, outraged. “Absolutely not.” His voice sounded ill-used.

“I’m feeling better. And I’d really rather people didn’t start talking.”

 _People are already talking_ , he told her. She would have to be deaf to not hear the concern from the pack bonds. _And I don’t want to go_.

Mercy looked at him, properly, the frown line in her forehead deep with worry. “I think it would do you good to get out for a run.”

“Do you.”

“Don’t try to overpower a woman in a sickbed, Bran, it’s beneath you.” He flinched and she drew in a deep breath. She lifted her arms. “Come here.” 

He got off the swivel chair and walked the few steps to her bed.

“Here,” she insisted, flapping her hands at him. “I want you to hug me.”

There was a drip in her arm, bruises from blood-taking, and she was wearing a hospital smock. She smelled of chemicals and sickness. Bran didn’t want to hug her. He wanted to curl up at her feet and weep.

He leaned forward and embraced her, so gently. He made to pull back almost immediately.

Mercy snorted and yanked him onto the bed.

“Mercy, stop it,” he said, fighting her, but not fighting her. She had arms, suddenly, like an octopus and because he was trying so hard to be gentle, she was winning. He gave in and collapsed onto the small bed bedside her, quickly adjusting so he wasn’t smothering her.

“That’s better,” she said, sounding pleased as she arranged herself around him, turning on her side. “You comfy?”

“No,” he growled in her face.

“I really feel loads better. I know you’re worried.” She put her hand over his mouth hurriedly as he started to protest. “I know you’re more than worried. I know you’re _deathly afraid_.”

Bran closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear it.

“Oh, Bran, I’m sorry.” She stroked his cheek. “I’m sorry I can’t make this better for you.”

“It’s not _about_ me,” he protested, pretending she didn’t know his thoughts. “You’re the one who is suffering.”

“It’s worth it. Really, it is.”

They lay still together for a few minutes. Eventually, she wriggled until he was behind her and could wrap his arm around her. It was a more comfortable position. She put his hand on her abdomen and held it. “An artichoke now,” she said. “That’s not so big.”

He stroked his hand over the smock. “Depends on the artichoke.”

She snorted. “When was the first time you had an artichoke? Do you remember?”

Bran thought, shuffling memories. “I don’t, no. I moved through Europe, so presumably I stumbled across one in France, perhaps. I remember them in California. The Alpha there had come from Europe. Spain. His mate was a good cook.” They had hosted him with an elaborate meal in the half-finished home that stood to this day, though that Alpha had long been usurped.

“That’s interesting. You should write a book.”

“About artichokes?”

She yawned. “No, about the things you’ve seen.”

He ‘hmm’ed and kissed the back of her head, the line of her parting. “Maybe when I retire.”

“That’s a ‘never’ if I’ve heard one. I’m going to have a little sleep.”

“Good plan.”

She drifted off, the first proper sleep she’d had in more than two days, and Bran lay still, thinking. He heard Sam return and potter about the room, then pad over to him and start to unlace his boots. _Thank you_ , he said to his son.

*

The day after full moon, Mercy felt good enough that Sam discharged her but not before they discussed the plans for the next one.

“You think there’ll be one,” Mercy said, her whole body inflating with hope.

“There’s every indication,” Sam said conservatively. “What we don’t know is if there will be a progression of sickness around the full moons so you’ll come back here three days before and stay here until we’re certain. If you feel the slightest hint of nausea, you tell me.” This he directed at Bran, as if Mercy wasn’t to be trusted to admit to it.

She growled at him, which he deserved. “Thank you, Doctor, _I_ will tell you if _I_ feel sick.”

They emerged into the morning sunshine and Mercy took several deep breaths. She was flushed with colour once more, eyes sparkling. The sweater she was wearing was Bran’s and it was a deep green. He stopped by the passenger door of the truck and kissed her. It was meant to be a quick, reassuring, _reassured_ , kiss but she wound her arms around his neck and pulled them together, kissing him back joyfully. They only pulled apart, panting, when a passing car horn startled them. He had pressed her against the truck and had his hand up her sweater, cupping her naked breast, and had no memory of how it got there.

“Sam thinks you knocked me up on the Wolf Moon,” she said, cheeks pink, as she pulled his T-shirt back down and relocated her bra.

Bran’s eyebrows rose. He got her into the truck and walked around to his side, thinking back.

“It would make sense,” she continued, when he joined her. “We barely stop for air around full moon.”

She was teasing him. Twenty-four hours ago she had been curled up on a hospital bed, breathing shallowly, and now she was teasing him about sex. Bran shook his head and started the engine. In and around them, the pack waited, nervously. Most had worked out that Mercy was pregnant without needing to be told. He’d had messages from Charles and Anna, left unanswered.

He also, Bran thought, had a lot of work to catch-up upon. Chastel had upped the attack on the British Alpha and Charles would have to go to England. Bran himself was supposed to be travelling this summer, visiting his Alphas during times of peace, to talk about the smaller things that were never addressed – to look his people people in the eye and to make plans for the future. He had let this ritual slip, once, and it was how Isabelle had been able to deteriorate. He had intended for Mercy to come, work their honeymoon into it.

And, as always, there were the witches.

“I could still come,” she said, picking up on his thoughts. “Just not around full moon.” Even she didn’t sound convinced.

“It can wait.”

“No,” Mercy sighed, as they pulled into their drive. “It can’t. You will need to go.”

A mist of red edged Bran’s vision, his professional responsibilities clashing with his personal. He blinked it away, crushed it. “Let’s see how the next month goes.” He could always split the workload with Charles, reducing the time he was away. Perhaps re-organise things so that the packs who were within a few hours flight away could be last, when, presumably, the danger was at its highest. He would have to avoid all travel around the full moon, returning home in between trips.

 _Danger, danger, danger,_ he thought, following Mercy into the house. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“A little.”

They diverted to the kitchen and settled on banana, peanut butter and toast, eaten in small quantities. Bran had a stack of sandwiches. She ate quietly, looking out of the window, lost in her own thoughts, whilst he watched her. When she was done, she pushed her plate to one side and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “I would like to make plans. I haven’t wanted to because we didn’t know if this was going to end happily. But it seems riskier to live day by day.”

He nodded.

“I’ll speak to Gus about cutting back work the two weeks either side of the full moon for the next couple of months. Or at least scheduling it so he knows I might not be available,” she said. 

“That sounds sensible.”

“I’ll have to explain why but I most people have worked it out.”

He speared a rogue tomato half with his fork, remembering her desire to be normal, to share what would normally be happy news. “We could still announce something. If you’d like.”

She shook her head at first. Then nodded. “Yeah, okay. The pack will know it’s high risk anyway. It’s not like they’ll throw us a party.” Mercy rolled her eyes. “We’re not going to be as bad as Sam and Ariana are we?”

Bran grunted and started clearing the plates away. “I think even we can manage that. Do you want to go lie down?”

With understanding in her eyes, Mercy wrapped her arms around him from the side. “If it’s okay, I think I might read in your study, whilst you work.”

Even better. He hugged her back. “It’s more than okay.”

*

“Did you know there’s a pool on whether it’s a boy or a girl?” she called to him from the master bathroom. They had, over the last two weeks, migrated into the bigger bedroom, with the intention of making the adjoining room the nursery, though they had certainly not bought any furniture or made any elaborate decoration plans.

Werewolves, as a general rule, didn’t ‘buy’ nursery furniture. Most borrowed. Another layer of superstition that Bran had known of but hadn’t ever particularly connected with. 

“Yes,” he said, repositioning the pair of chairs in front of the window for the third and final time. He stood back and assessed them.

“Really? Have you picked a team?”

“Yes.”

She re-emerged, now dressed in a loose, long dress – one of the items that had been leant to her by a female in the pack. Mercy had been singularly disinterested in purchasing a wardrobe for her expanding belly but the changing weather left even the larger items of his clothes uncomfortably hot and inappropriate. He had been more than grateful towards the human females who had come to Mercy’s aid. He had noticed it was becoming a point of pride when Mercy wore something someone had given her, a badge of feminine honour. Which was amusing because he was fairly certain she pulled things from the dressing room almost entirely at random.

“You have? What did you choose?”

“A girl.”

“You’re confident.”

“I am.”

“Is this confidence born from experience or confidence born by witchy-woo-woo?” she asked, her face utterly serious.

Bran was surprised into a laugh. “Witchy-woo-woo?” he said, delighted. He dropped down into a chair and laughed some more, repeating her words and finding them funnier each time. When he finally stopped, he felt drained, as if a tension he hadn’t acknowledged had been expelled from his body. He lifted his head and appraised her, his funny mate. He could count on one hand the number of times his witch-born nature had been referred to his face in the last century and this was the first time someone had so casually dismissed it. “Sorry to disappoint, I’m just playing the odds. Most of the pack has gone for a boy.”

“Hmm.” She didn’t look convinced but dropped the topic. She smiled softly. “Shall we leave it a surprise then?”

He nodded, having expecting she would want to. For Mercy, knowing the sex was another nervousness, another ‘real’ moment, even though they had passed the fifth full moon now and she was fully into her second trimester. Perhaps because of Sam’s ministrations, she had not been as affected during the previous full moon and had only spent twenty-four hours under observation before Sam felt she could return home and take things easy. The baby had started moving, as well, which Mercy prosaically described as ‘freaking weird’ and Bran privately considered a small miracle.

He didn’t care – girl or boy. He just wanted a living, healthy child and a living, healthy mate. And, truthfully, if it came down to it, the latter rather than the former.

“I preferred them in front of the fireplace,” she said, nodding to the chairs.

He sighed and got up. “Me too.” 


	19. Chapter 19

Bran managed to cover the North-East in two weeks, spending three days with each pack before returning to Aspen Creek and handing over the responsibility for the East and South East Coast to Charles and Anna. They were gone for three weeks, thanks to an issue arising in Florida with, if he had it correctly, a _were-gator_ , the body of which was lost in a swamp in the proceeding battle. Anna, at least, had sent him some photos for his ‘What the Heck’ folder, as she called it.

The extra week’s delay put pressure on Bran to deal with the two packs in Louisiana and Arizona as quickly as possible. He chose to reduce his time in New Orleans, as Charles had visited so recently, and where – a happy coincidence - the average temperature was well over one-hundred and not Bran’s preferred climate. Phillipe’s lascivious comments on the appeal of a fecund mate had Bran mentally going to his quiet place, instead of ripping Phillipe’s head off as a preference. In Flagstaff, Arizona, the temperature was more pleasant but the relatively young Alpha – Roland – caused Bran a serious headache almost as soon as the plane landed and he smelt the airport terminal.

“Witches,” Bran growled down the phone to Charles as he picked up his baggage. “Riddled with them. I need you here.”

Charles flew out in the jet. They hunted the witches for a full week, tracking down every last bloodthirsty family member until Bran was certain the forest was clear.

Then Bran spent another two days with Roland, drilling him on witchcraft and witches, as the man’s ignorance had almost led to a significant breach in their security. By this point, it was nearly full moon and after several discussions with Mercy – some might call them ‘arguments’ but Bran chose not to – and then a follow-up call with Samuel, he stayed with Roland’s pack for the full moon run, but sent Charles back home to watch over his family.

*

 _Mercy_ was waiting for Bran at the airport. “Surprise!” she said. 

“What are you doing here?” he said, taking her in. She wore another borrowed summer dress, one that hugged her increasingly impressive cleavage. Her hair was pulled up onto the top of her head in a bun. She was bigger, he thought, touching the bump with the back of his knuckles as he kissed her. “This is nice.” He kissed her again, breathing her in, and felt some tension dissolve.

“I hoped it would be,” she said, tucking her arm through his as they walked towards the parking lot. “I wanted to get out. I think I escaped an escort but it wouldn’t surprise me—yup. Ben’s over there.” She waved to where Ben was lounging against his own truck, casually playing on his cell phone. Bran sent a wave of approval to Ben which Mercy didn’t miss.

They stood in front of the truck and Mercy eyed him, spinning the keys around her finger. “Do you want to drive?”

Regretfully, because she was more than capable, Bran acknowledged he did. Before she became pregnant, he had been content to have her drive him but protecting their unborn child was now paramount. She shrugged and gave him the keys. “You’ll have to move the seat forward. I had to make room for.” She gestured down to herself and then clambered into the passenger seat.

He smiled because she was charmingly ungainly and then for the first time felt a roar of possessive energy overcome the wolf. It was unexpected because the wolf had been surprisingly quiet from the moment he had realized she was pregnant. He wondered what it meant.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, he looked over at her, smiled some more. “You are so beautiful,” he said. She was, as the cliché’s said, glowing with vitality.

Mercy blushed but in turn gave him an equally appreciative look. “Thank you. You’re a sight for sore eyes, too.”

A frisson of anticipation crackled between them.

“It’s really good to be home,” Bran said, contemplating the journey ahead and wondering if—

“Oh no. Absolutely not. You’ll just have to drive fast,” Mercy said, folding her hands on her lap primly.

“On it,” Bran said.

*

“Your wolf is around a lot these days,” Mercy told him one evening, echoing his thoughts, as she increasingly did, even when he wasn’t thinking them at the same moment.

“What do you mean?” He was suddenly alarmed at the prospect of his wolf being so close to the surface when he wasn’t aware of it.

She blushed, charmingly, and opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of cranberry juice. “Um. Mostly in bed.”

Bran found his lips twitching. He took her head in his heads and turned her so he could look her in the eye. “Explain.”

She became annoyed, which made her bolder. “I see him,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning close to him. “Usually when you are about to come inside me. Like he wants to remind me that he’s there too.”

Anna yelled when she found them, moments later, necking frantically in the kitchen. “I will never get used to that,” she muttered, grabbing a water from the refrigerator. “Charles, your father is making out with Mercy in the kitchen again.”

“She’s changed her tune,” Mercy said, rubbing herself against him as he sucked on her neck. “In the beginning it was all _he’s pretty cute, Mercy, are you sure you don’t want to tap that_ and now she gets grossed out and runs from the room.”

Bran lifted his head because it sounded bizarre. “Say all that again,” he asked, thickly, kissing her and wishing his family would disappear.

She ‘mmmm’d against him. “Which part? The part where Anna thinks you’re cute? You are cute.”

“I don’t know what is wrong with the women in my family that this is an adjective used to describe me. Do none of you have any sense?”

Mercy’s eye roll was spectacular. “Not _fluffy_ cute, Bran. Cute _boy_ cute.”

“You think you’re speaking English but you’re not.”

“Cute meaning ‘attractive’. Meaning ‘appealing’. Meaning…” She pulled his bottom lip between hers. “You’re hot.”

“Hmm.” Bran didn’t know what to say to this, so he decided to demonstrate his appreciation. They were busy for a few more minutes, until Anna yelled for them to get a room. Bran thought this was a good idea and only Mercy’s protests stopped him from demonstrating that this room, the kitchen, was the room he had chosen.

“Later,” she said, biting his bottom lip. She sauntered from the kitchen and Bran, with resignation, thought that perhaps Phillipe had a point.

*

“Good, everything is good,” Sam said at her check-up. He started tidying things away, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “Now. Have you made a decision on how you want to have the baby?” At their previous check-up, Sam had outlined the options he would prefer – where he could control the delivery, rather than a panicked natural labour. He had left it to them to discuss.

Mercy nodded. “I would like to be induced.” She cast a brief look Bran’s way, who remained impassive. For the most part, Bran had left any decisions on the pregnancy to sit firmly in her court but, strangely, the idea of his son cutting Mercy open had filled him with a bone-chilling horror. A horror he had not been able to hide from her and had not wanted to.

It had, he explained, nothing to do with Sam, nothing to do with fears over the operation itself. He just felt in his bones that it was wrong. And his bones tended to be right.

Sam nodded. “Fine.” He pulled a calendar from the wall and flicked forward a month. “Four weeks from Saturday?”

Bran shared Mercy’s astonishment. “That’s… soon,” Mercy said.

“Purposefully. The baby is on the large size and you’ll just be full term by then. First time mothers tend to be late but we don’t want to chance it.”

“Wow.” She looked down at her bump and mouthed a second ‘wow’ mutely. 

Bran looked at his wife thoughtfully and then back to Sam. “Do you think you could deliver the crib at the weekend?” he asked.

*

Bran hung up the phone just as Charles walked into his study. “Are you my next meeting?” he said, clicking open his calendar. Charles regularly put meetings in his electronic schedule but they usually had more specific titles than ‘Catch-up’. When he felt Sam pull up to the house, as well, Bran grew suspicious. “You know, as my sons, you don’t actually need to make appointments to see me.”

“This is an official meeting,” Charles said, tapping fingers together whilst they waited for Sam to join them.

“Sorry,” Sam said, walking in with Bethan held upside down and squealing. He deposited Bran’s granddaughter on the rug in front of the fire and then held her face in much the same manner as one would a puppy. “You can change if you want to but you have to behave.”

Bethan’s body shimmered into the purple-gray wolf pup and then she rolled onto her four feet, shook herself, and scampered off.

“Is that safe?” Charles asked casually.

“The ground floor is reasonably pup-proofed,” Sam said, blasé. “Let’s start.”

Charles smiled at his father and it was the smile that sent less dominant wolves running for their lives. “We’re here to talk about how we’re going to control you whilst Mercy gives birth.”

Bran tilted his head to the side. “Control me,” he repeated. Dangerously.

“Yes, Da. The part where you go insane because Mercy will be in excruciating pain and there’ll be you, her, my nurse and me in a small room together, along with Mercy’s blood, her life and your unborn child’s life held in the balance.”

Bran tapped his fingers on the desk, his fury simmering beneath his skin. He let a little leak into his eyes. Both of his sons remained impassive. “You think this will be a problem.”

Charles and Samuel had the grace not to look at each other before they chorused, “We do.”

Bran had, of course, given childbirth a great deal of thought. His previous experience had led to the death of a woman he had loved and, consequentially, a period of… unrest for his wolf. Mercy, however, was healthy, having not worn herself to the bone protecting their child from the full moon. Sam had every confidence that labor would be successful, though it may be long and hard on Mercy. He had – and continued to be - worried for her.

He had not really considered his active mindset during the process. He did this now. “I’m reasonably confident I can manage the situation,” he said, because he was.

His sons watched him. Charles nodded once, and stood. Sam followed, as if they’d had a conversation. “Just as long as you’ve thought about it, Da,” Sam said. 

“But you booked a full half hour,” Bran said, pointing at the clock. “We’ve a whole twenty minutes left to talk. Perhaps there’s some other area of my life you’d like to raise your concerns over?”

They ignored him, which was annoying, and he clicked around his computer for a few minutes until he went to find Mercy, intending to regale her with this story.

She was lying on the sofa in the living area, arranged within some pillows in a way that looked uncomfortable but she assured him it wasn’t. “What did they want?” Mercy asked, sounding annoyed. She held up a partially chewed shoe, wet with saliva. “I just wrestled this from your granddaughter before she left. It’s not mine. Is it Leah’s?”

Bran took it from her. “Too small,” he surmised. “Perhaps someone left it after a run. Where did she find it?”

“Beats me.”

He tossed the shoe into the waste basket and crawled over the back of the sofa, picking his way around the pillows until he was ensconced with her. She was a little grumpy, he felt, hence the need to bring up Leah. He kissed her, which made her more grumpy until eventually it made her less.

“Okay,” she said, eventually, drawing away from him with small, conciliatory kisses. “I’m good.”

“You are. They came to read me the riot act,” he said, resting his head on his hand and running his hand over her bump.

“What?”

“Something about me murdering everyone whilst you’re giving birth to the artichoke.”

“Oh that. Pfft,” she said, blowing a raspberry. “What’s a little murder amongst family?”

“Exactly.”

She grew annoyed again. “Who did they think they were talking to? You have more control than any werewolf in the world. What a joke.”

“I also communicated this to them.”

She blew another raspberry, then winced. “Okay. I need to pee. Can you push me off the sofa? I hope our kid is less annoying than your sons.”

Once she was mobile, Bran rolled himself into the warm shape she had left, curling himself around the strange pillows, mimicking her pose. He thought about Sam’s words, though he didn’t need to, because he thought about them every day.

“Don’t die,” he told her, quietly.

“I don’t intend to,” she yelled back from the bathroom.

*

Mercy did not die but it was no easy thing. Samuel had warned them that being induced didn't necessarily mean the baby would come immediately. The initial dose of gel didn't take so after a few hours they made a second attempt and, to everyone's relief, after a few hours her contractions did start. Her active labor was long and Sam didn't want to give her pain relief because of the lack of data on the impact it might have on the baby. After twenty-four hours of being awake, Mercy was starting to tire and that was before she was fully dilated.

"This is not fun," she told him, panting. She smelt of sweat and defeat. "No more babies."

He agreed, kissing her hand. "No more babies."

Sam spent a lot of time between Mercy's legs, a sight Bran had become immune to. "Fully dilated," Sam said, eventually, rolling his chair to the side, " _Finally_. Okay, next contraction, you can push, Mercy." 

Mercy took Bran's hand, head swivelling to him. Her eyes were flat, sweat had pushed her hair to her face. "I'm going to try something," she said, her voice hoarse with tiredness. 

"Pushing?" Bran said, feeling his blood pressure rise with the memory of being in exactly this place before, seeing a woman lying the way Mercy was, weak the way Mercy was. The beast started to claw its way up, uncontrollably, as Bran's panic flared. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam freeze, starting to lower himself to the floor. _Good_ , the wolf who was not-Bran thought. 

"Oh no, you are absolutely _not_ allowed to do this now," Mercy said through her teeth. Her hand clenched around his and - he couldn't describe it any better - _pulled_.

“This is interesting,” he said, watching the shimmering streams that was his werewolf strength travel down his arm and into her.

Mercy screamed with her contractions and pushed when Sam instructed, then panted, panted, panted. She glared at him. “You're not going away.”

“Apparently not. What are you doing?” Bran asked, curiously detached, the presence of his beast a distant memory. His hand was going numb. “Sam, look at this.”

Sam, who was busy but managed to give his father a moment, did not like the look of ‘this’. He rolled his chair to the side so Mercy could see him. Bran stared fixedly at the bloodied gloves he was wearing. It was strange to not feel fear at the sight of her blood. He had _always_ felt fear at the sight of her blood. Every drop was precious. “Mercy, what are you doing?”

“I'm giving birth and - ah! - I’m making sure neither of us die. I'm _multi-tasking_ ,” she panted, confidently. Sweat was pouring down her flushed face. 

“And how are you doing that?”

“I spoke to my Dad. It’s like. The silver.” She was hit with another wave of pain and screamed. She crushed Bran’s hand with a strength she had never had before. He yelped – more in surprise - and then bore down on the wave of pain himself.

Mercy's labour lasted thirty-six hours, which was about thirty-six hours longer than Bran really felt was absolutely necessary, and then their tiny son was placed on her chest, mewling. Mercy let go of Bran’s hand, which was broken, to reverently cradle her son’s tiny skull.

Bran blinked at the return of his former strength and watched the bones of his hand knit back together.

“Did you know she could do that?” Sam whispered, assessing to see if he needed to apply a splint.

“No.” The silver, she had said. He puzzled for a moment before remembering she had once drawn silver from the bodies of the Columbia Basin Pack through the bonds that had joined them.

“We’re all alive, and sane, that’s the important thing,” Mercy said, triumphantly, weeping.

Bran wiped the tears from her face, kissed her, kissed his third, living child, and then kissed her again. “Look what you did,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, giving birth is a delightful, delightful mystery to me.


	20. Chapter 20

The baby – who had no name for several days after his birth – smelled of both wolf and coyote, which Bran assumed meant he could be either. Or perhaps neither. And yes, there was the blood of the witch in him. There was always going to be. He would manage that. 

Bran was transfixed and, when Mercy wasn’t nursing him, held the baby almost continuously, for hours at a time. It was as good as having Anna in the room. His wolf had never been so calm.

“What would the monsters say if they could see you now,” Asil complained, but quietly, as he stared down at Bran’s child.

“That he’s more dangerous now that he’s ever been,” Mercy said, from where she was dozing on the couch. They had received a stream of visitors to pay respects to ‘the little prince’, as Asil called him. “Give him a cuddle, Asil. You’ll like it.”

Bran, who had been practicing all day, placidly handed his child to one of the monsters and thought that Mercy had it right.

Asil smiled down at the baby, his face softening perceptibly. “He’s extraordinary, Bran. Why haven’t you named him?”

Mercy laughed and ran her hand over Bran’s arm. “We’re still debating between a Welsh name, another Welsh name, and a further three Welsh names.”

“Well, pick a nice easy-to-pronounce one and save the others for the next time,” Asil said lightly, gently swaying from side to side with surprising proficiency.

“Mmm,” Mercy said, merrily ignoring Bran’s flare of panic. “Let’s park that thought for the time being, I think, Asil.”

He cast a sly look towards the Marrok. “Ah, yes, a little too soon for the traumatised father. I understand.”

Bran growled. “Give me my boy back, Asil.”

Asil grunted and did so, stroking the boy’s head one last time. “I suppose if any pack was going to be blessed enough to have two Omegas, it would be this one.”

*

Mercy was doing sit-ups by the bed. “When did Charles first change?”

Not having raised his second son, he relied on information Charles had given him himself. “He tells me he was two or three.”

“So Bethan was early.”

“Yes.” Bran made faces down at Wyn, who frowned at him. His eyes were just starting to darken, turning his mother’s color. His skin was still pale like milk, veins a delicate blue-green, and hair so light it was nearly white. He looked like a Cornick. Bran kissed his rounded belly. He had missed Charles’s babyhood, too overcome by grief. Had he kissed Samuel’s rounded belly the same way? He felt not. Babies had come and gone too easily, back then. To cherish was to mourn. 

“Or it was just that she’s part fae.”

Bran put Wyn’s fingers on his face. The little hand patted him in an uncoordinated fashion. So tiny. “Possibly.”

“And I was three months.” She was panting now, closing in on fifty, and hating every moment. “I feel like we’re writing the book on this one.”

Wyn’s fingers investigated Bran’s mouth. He pretended to eat them. Wyn went a little cross-eyed. “That we are.”

Mercy sat up and looked at him over the mattress. She had a look on her face that said she found watching him playing with the baby was both charming and completely alien, even though Wyn was his own. “Anna says that you’re sending them to Hawaii. What’s in Hawaii? Is there a pack there?”

He lifted and dropped a shoulder. “No. A couple of Cantrip agents went out there and never came back last month. I want to know why.”

She crawled over the mattress and flopped on her back beside their son. Bran watched the rise and fall of her breasts, swollen with milk and straining against a T-shirt that had once been loose on her. He longed to touch her. He looked down at Wyn quickly.

Mercy turned her head and said shyly, “Not now, but later, I wouldn’t mind fooling around a little. If you’re interested.”

“I am very interested, yes,” Bran said quickly. “Please. And also thank you in advance.”

She laughed and rolled over so she could kiss him over the baby. “You’re welcome, also in advance.”

*

The first time they attempted _anything_ below the waist after Wyn was an unnerving experience for both of them. He wasn’t used to her smelling like fear when they were in bed together and though she repeatedly reassured him she was ‘fine’ he recognised this was a lie and forced himself to stop.

“Tell me,” he said, cuddling her close and drawing the sheets over them.

“I don’t know. It feels different. What if I’m… different. What if I don’t like it as much. What if _you_ don’t.”

“I think we take the time to make sure you do like it as much,” he said, kissing her neck. “And I like everything about you.”

Mercy wasn’t convinced but her heartbeat was slowly returning to normal. He ran his hands down her back, content to have her in his arms. When the baby woke, and cried for her, Bran went to fetch him and watched Mercy feed him. “Can you,” she began, handing him to Bran when Wyn had his fill. He sat Wyn up and patted his back until he burped sleepily and then put him back in his crib and stayed with him until he was sure he was asleep. 

She was nearly asleep when he came back and he climbed into bed and resolutely did not think about sex.

*

The second time, Bran came armed with research from Google.

“I’m going to use my mouth on you,” he told her, factually. He hesitated, briefly, before ploughing on with a degree of eagerness he couldn’t quite suppress. ”Then, afterwards, if you want, you can reciprocate. But that’s all we’re doing.”

“If I want?” Mercy said dryly, putting down the iPad. She had listened to his speech with her lips parted in surprise.

“Yes, the website I read said at no point should I put pressure on you to do anything you didn’t want to.”

“The website,” she repeated, exaggerating the words as he undressed.

“Yes. It was more of a forum, I understand,” Bran said, getting into their bed and helping her slide her ridiculous pyjamas off. She was a little shy about it. She had not been undressing in front of him since the baby was born. “Many human mothers. Very informative.”

He was pleased she found this funny because it relaxed her. She giggled as he kissed his way down her body, nuzzling her breasts, the softer parts where she had grown his child, her trembling inner thighs. He let a trickle of his desire for her filter through the mate bond, reassuring her. It was important, the human mothers had said, that the husband communicate his attraction for her, even if she didn’t believe it.

He had reasoned that possibly showing Mercy the depth of his attraction might, however, be overpowering.

He licked her and she gasped and tensed. “Good or bad?” he asked quickly.

“Good. It’s good.”

Bran did it again, more intently. “Good?” he asked, forcing himself to pause when he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in her forever. He had missed her so much. He pressed himself against the mattress and shuddered with need.

“Yes, yes, good.”

He kept going. At one point, she gripped his hair hard and he held himself still, glancing up at her. She looked very cross. “Bad?”

“Wait a moment,” she said. He waited, watching her face. She _smelled_ healed, nothing suggested there was anything physically wrong with her, but he understand there were other factors at work.

Whilst he waited, he rubbed his hips against the mattress again and bit down on a groan.

“Okay, keep going. Exactly what you were doing.”

He liked clear instructions. He put his mouth to her clit, pressed down with his tongue and slide his index finger a little way inside of her, then joined it with his middle finger, curling them upwards. She froze and flooded their bond with her feelings – a tangle of pleasure and of the mist of lust – and she clenched around him. “Good, good, good – _Oh!_ _Bran!_ ” 

There really wasn’t anything better than a woman coming saying your name, Bran thought, licking every last drop of her climax from her until she trembled beneath him. He could have purred with satisfaction.

She pulled him by his hair. “Inside me,” she said.

“Ah, the website said—“

“I’m also very well read on this subject. Go slowly, it’ll be fine.”

She really thought much of his superhuman qualities, Bran realised, alarmed at the prospect that he might not be able to _go slowly_. He hesitated and she tugged at him. “It’s okay,” she said, thickly, “Please. I want you.”

There was no saying no to that. Carefully, Bran inched his way inside of her, peering at her face for any sign of discomfort. When he was fully seated, he blew out a breath and held himself tensed on his hands. “It’s good,” she told him, as if his pausing was for her. She focussed on him. “Are you-?”

“I’m really close,” he told her, not proud.

Her face blossomed. “Oh, how flattering,” she said, arching beneath him, teasingly.

“I’m glad you think—ah!“ He had to thrust once, twice, three times, then, and suddenly his superhuman powers of endurance completely failed him and he came. The website had not thought to mention this part.

He managed a few more short, juddering movements and then lowered his head onto her chest. “Damn.”

She giggled and held him, kissed where she could reach. “This was so good. I must tell your forum friends.”

“Mmph,” he said.

*

He woke to a presence not quite right and found himself in the baby’s room with no memory of the journey from the bedroom.

“Coyote,” he said, to the stranger standing over Wyn’s crib. Adrenaline raced through him.

“Werewolf,” Coyote greeted, glancing over his shoulder with a white-toothed smile. His head turned again to look down on the baby. “You know I’ve never had one quite like this, before.”

Bran walked quietly, calmly, towards his son. He didn’t think the Native American spirit was a threat but he didn’t know for sure. He knew he didn’t like having a stranger in the house, in the bedroom of his vulnerable child. “A grandchild?”

“Oh no, plenty of those. I mean, one like this. A bit of me, a bit of your kind. Unique.”

Bran looked down at his son, expecting to find Wyn asleep. Instead, the baby was staring up at them, at his grandfather and father. It was dark. A human baby wouldn’t be able to see much of anything but Bran had the distinct impression that Wyn could see them clearly.

“Will he be able to Change?”

Mercy had changed at three months. Wyn was three months now. They had both been watching, waiting to see if it would happen. Bran had come home to find his practical-minded mate had coyote-proofed the stairs as a precaution, which would never have occurred to him. He was not cut out for fragile life-forms. 

“Mmm, I should think so.” Coyote reached down and rubbed Wyn’s stomach. The baby waved his fists before plunging one into his mouth. “A mutt, though. A coyote-wolf.”

Part of Bran was relieved that his child might be able to run with him. “He’s Omega.”

“Yes, that makes sense. There’s a nice logic to that. Ability to quiet the living and the dead.”

A prickle of unease permeated the stillness. “You think he’ll have power over the dead, too? Like Mercy?”

“Definitely. Your witch blood ensured that. Ah, don’t fret, boy, it’s not as bad as all that,” Coyote said wryly. He bent to pick Wyn up and hoisted him in the air, above his head. “Look at you!”

 _Boy_ , Bran thought, fingers itching to take his child from the man. _Boy._

“Dad, stop freaking Bran out,” Mercy said, wiping sleep from her eyes as she walked into the room. She took Wyn from his grandfather, with a firm look, and propped him on her hip. Bran eased, slightly. “It’s good to see you in person. Can you get hold of Gary? I’d like him to meet his nephew.”

Coyote nodded. “I’ll see if he’ll come. You’ve done well.” Then he vanished.

Wyn made a noise of surprise. “Yes, he does that,” Mercy said, patting him on the back. She gave their son a wry smile. “He properly woke you, didn’t he? You’re going to be impossible tomorrow.”

“He just appeared in our house,” Bran mused.

“I’m not sure we can do anything about that. At least you knew he was here.”

He didn’t like it but he agreed. Another thought occurred to him. “You’ve said he puts his children in harms way. That it entertains him.”

“I mean, I don’t think that will apply to babies. I never saw him when I was a kid, at least. Maybe when he’s older,” Mercy said thoughtfully, not looking thrilled. Then her face lightened. “I heard him say Wyn might Change.”

“Yes, he did.”

“We’re going to have to hide all the shoes,” she muttered, but she still looked happy. She bounced Wyn a little and kissed his head. “Shall we take him to bed with us? He might go to sleep if we’re near.”

Bran nodded. He wanted Wyn where he could see him. 

She snorted and padded back into their room. “Properly freaked you out.”

*

“I am not thrilled with this,” Bran said as she waved the knife around.

“It’s a small cut.” She held it over her arm and hesitated. “I don’t suppose…?”

“I’m not certain I could.” Bran checked and then shook his head. “No. The wolf wouldn’t let me.”

“Let you?”

“Quite literally. Don’t tell anyone,” he added, with a smile. “A strong part of me wants to wrestle that knife from you.”

“Interesting. We’ll talk about that later,” she amended. Quickly, Mercy drew the knife across her skin, with a wince, and blood beaded.

Bran took the knife and put it to one side. She took his hands and closed her eyes. Since all he had been instructed to do during this experiment was to ‘stand there’, he waited. He felt her go deep into her mind, dropping into the space where she ‘saw’ the pack bonds. He felt a tingle, no, more like a buzzing between their hands, as if he was cupping an insect. There was a pulling sensation, much smaller than when she had been giving birth. Under the bright sunlight streaming through the windows, he could see a shimmering trail roll down his arms.

The cut on her arm stopped bleeding. Mercy opened her eyes. “It worked,” she said, not sounding surprised.

She let go of his hands and he flexed them, thinking about the possibilities. “What did your father say, exactly?”

Mercy rolled her eyes and wiped the cut, inspecting it closely. There wasn’t even a mark. “It was typically cryptic dream stuff. He just said that if I could draw sickness, surely I could draw health. So I had to practice. Ariana helped.”

His wife and daughters-in-law spent a great deal of time together. They had formed strong relationships, even before Mercy had become his mate, but now they behaved more like family, working together. It had pleased him. When he looked at the bonds of the pack, the ones between his family were the strongest, even though Sam was technically a lone wolf. Strong pack bonds meant a stronger pack – it was that simple.

When she had been heavily pregnant, Mercy had continued to visit with Ariana, more than anyone else. He remembered asking if perhaps Ariana could come to Mercy, instead of the other way around, and Mercy had dismissed it, saying she wasn’t that feeble and instead she didn’t want to have Bethan running around the house chewing things.

In reality, she had been going to Ariana to practice her brand of Coyote magic.

“You could have asked me,” Bran said, gently. Wary of starting an argument because he was confused by her keeping something from him, he tried to smile. “I’m known to be quite good with magic.”

She sighed. “I was going to. But the timing was never right. Most of the practicing, I did when you were away because I didn’t want to try something around full moon. I wasn’t consciously _not_ telling you. I wanted to. But equally I only wanted to give you good news. Forgive me?”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, leaning against the wall. He wondered if Sam knew. “It’s fine.”

Mercy was persistent. She took his hand and peered at him suspiciously. “You don’t _feel_ fine.”

“You had a magical puzzle. I like magical puzzles,” he said, trying to shrug it off. He lifted her arm to inspect it for himself. “How long did it take you?”

“Oh, ages. Sometimes it was really frustrating. I’m really very sorry,” she said.

“Mercy, it’s fine. Let it go.”

“No,” she said, growing heated. “You’re hurt and it’s not because it’s a puzzle. You feel like I kept something big from you. I’ve hurt you.”

Bran released her arm. “It’s fine, Mercy. I’m glad it worked. I’m glad you learnt something new. I’m going to go back to work,” he said, with finality.

She let him go, temporarily, of course. He passed the rest of the day in his study, whilst he knew Mercy was taking the baby around to visit with the pack. It was important to build social bonds early and she enjoyed showing him off. She enjoyed the commonality, the normalness, of being a mother, which surpassed all other differences the women might have with each other. And Wyn was a very good baby, cheerful and relaxed in company, only crying for the usual reasons. The fact that he was Omega meant that there might even be some Wildlings who they could visit with, though they would be waiting until he was older for that. Werewolves loved babies but some loved them for the taste, too.

“You’re angry,” Sam said, on the phone, after they had spoken of other things. The connection was terrible; he was driving.

Bran didn’t lie. “Did you know Mercy was learning magic with Ariana?”

“No, Da, I didn’t. Is there a problem if she was?”

He hung up. The problem with having a new relationship, for his relationship with Mercy was comparatively very new, was that it required _work_ all the time. He hated to compare things to the past but there had been very little work with Leah. He had tried not to be emotionally invested enough for there to be.

By the time Mercy returned, Bran had worked himself through his anger and went to join her in the kitchen where she was pulling things from the freezer for later. Wyn was asleep in his bouncy chair on the table, a small spit bubble growing and shrinking between his lips as he breathed.

She gave him raised eyebrows. “And?” she asked.

“It felt like a big secret. Like a lie,” Bran said, pulling plates from the cupboards, taking cutlery from a drawer.

Mercy nodded. “Yes. I didn’t want to disappoint you if I didn’t succeed, so I decided not to tell you and convinced myself it was because you were busy,” she said. He had not been alone in thinking about this. She bit her bottom lip. “I think I wanted to just turn around and say, _Here is this thing I did by myself_.” 

“But you weren’t by yourself. You were working with Ariana. Why did you want to do it without me?” he asked. 

She stared down at the counter. “I didn’t want to disappoint you,” she repeated, softly. “I disappointed you a lot. Growing up. I hated feeling like that. I still hate it.” She winced. “It’s because you’re older, too, and have had experiences I have never had. It feels like there should be some things that are particular to me that I should be able to work out myself, not lean on you constantly.”

Bran ran a hand over his face. He didn’t like what she was saying but that didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t true, which was a problem. He wanted her to lean on him. Her Coyote powers were hers, however, and unique to her. Any advice he could give was based on his more well rounded understanding of the innate powers of the world, which didn’t have to hold true with Walkers. “I see. I think that’s something we will have to work on.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I guess our situation is not particularly normal.”

He touched her, lightly, the lightest touch to her waist. “You don’t disappoint me. I am amazed by you, daily. And I am interested in exploring your powers. With you, if you’ll have me, but if you would rather with someone else, I would just like to know. Can we agree on that? Interest aside, your safety is what matters.”

“I would like that.” She gave him a small, slightly flirtatious smile. “Kiss and make up?”

He smiled a little and pulled her to him, tangling his fingers in her hair and kissing her three times, quickly, before she captured his mouth for a proper kiss. He pulled back and held her steady. “You did an amazing thing. You have done _many_ amazing things, all by yourself, and you will do many more,” he said, firmly.

Mercy opened her mouth to respond in kind when a 'pop' of familiar magic behind them abruptly drew their attention. Before his brain could understand what had happened, Bran dove to catch the sandy coyote-wolf pup that had flung itself from the bouncy chair.

Laughing, Bran held their wriggling son up as Wyn frantically licked his father's face, paws scrabbling at his chest. 

Mercy gasped in wonder and reached out to stroke him. "Did you see that?" she whispered, as if she couldn't believe. "Did you see how fast that was? For the love of Pete, we're never going to get a moment's peace."

He laughed, helplessly, as Wyn smothered him in puppy kisses. The pack was going to lose their minds. "I can't wait."

  
END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, boom, it's done. The schmoopiest schmoop that ever did schmoop.


End file.
